“Who said anything about hunting?”
“Don’t bullshit me, pretty boy,” Rodrigo said.
The neon banana sign blinked from yellow to green and then back to yellow. Nick flashed him a smile that was all teeth.
“What if I was hunting? These people are nobody.”
“Nobody can still call the cops. If you’re hungry we’ll head back to the apartment and open one of those blood packs,” Rodrigo reminded the kid.
“Drinking that blood is like drinking piss.”
“Nothing I can do about it.”
“We should be hunting that bitch down,” Nick said as he fiddled with his sunglasses, thought it over, and put them on again.
“I might do that if you hadn’t left the apartment without an escort. It’s Mexico City.”
“I don’t need an escort. Give me a cigarette,” Nick said, snapping his fingers.
Damn twat, Rodrigo thought, but he took out his cigarettes. Gauloises. He never smoked anything else. Lighter, American-style cigarettes were for pansies. You either smoked dark or went home. Rodrigo smoked dark, and he smoked a lot.
He took out two cigarettes and struck a match, lighting both and handing one to Nick. Nick took a puff, gave the line of young people one last look, and shrugged.
“Fine, let’s head back to the apartment,” Nick said.
They had to walk several blocks, back in the direction of Parque España. They stopped at a liquor store because Nick wanted booze. Nick’s kind—Necros, though jokers called them “Necros nacos,” the trashy vampires—drank like it was going out of fashion. Something to do with endophenotypes, but Rodrigo was no biologist.
True to his heritage, Nick put half a dozen bottles of vodka into a green shopping basket. He also wanted absinthe. Not just any absinthe. Czech absinthe, using the original formula, with authentic wormwood. They did not have any and Nick looked like he was going to pitch a fit. Rodrigo convinced him to take two bottles of whiskey and said he’d find him absinthe later.
When they walked into the apartment they found La Bola eating fried chicken and playing video games. He sucked his fingers and waved at them.
“Where are Colima and Nacho?” Rodrigo asked as soon as he closed the door.
“They’ve gone to find those cousins they mentioned. To help with the job.”
Rodrigo had brought only three operatives with him. He needed a few extra hands to help out. It would not be difficult to recruit a few more guns. Nacho and Colima had relatives here, eager for a break, for a ticket back north. These thugs were cheap and easy to come by. He might have been able to play it with just the lot he had, but Rodrigo didn’t want to take chances. Although Atl was alone, she was still a vampire and she’d already given them a run for their money. Of course, Rodrigo had Nick, but Nick was young and hardly well trained for such a task. He’d lost the girl when they were in Jalisco; she’d slipped from his fingers despite his macho posturing. It hardly mattered how big your fangs were if your prey could outwit you, and land a mighty good punch in your face, breaking a few of those sharp teeth. He healed fast—vampires like Nick were like sharks and there was always a tooth behind the one that just fell out. When they were angry, their maws were a scary sight—but facts were facts. Nick had been outwitted by a girl.
“I wonder what they’ll bring,” Nick said. “Colima and Nacho are vermin. I liked Justiniano.”
“Justiniano’s dead and vermin serves its purpose.”
Nick grabbed one of the bottles and opened it. He sat down on the couch and began drinking it straight from the bottle, vodka dribbling down his chin.
“Come,” Rodrigo said, motioning to La Bola.
They headed from the living room to the studio. Rodrigo kept two places, one in Sinaloa and this other one. Of the two, the Mexico City apartment was the grander place even if he visited it sparingly. It had more style, more things, more of him. The apartment was large, with tall ceilings. There was a monochromatic look about the furniture, everything black and white, though he added dashes of color with several paintings of vast sizes hanging from the walls.
The studio was very much the same. A huge desk, a couple of comfortable chairs, and his rare books on display. Electronic books might be easy to purchase, but Rodrigo was a collector, not a consumer. This, he thought, was what differentiated him from the vampire lords—God, the affront of these drug pushers to call themselves lords—who splashed their cash with no taste. Rodrigo had taste. He had style.
He couldn’t say the same for everyone else.
“Sit,” Rodrigo ordered.
La Bola sat on one of his fine leather chairs. While Rodrigo was short and skinny, La Bola was a tall, beefy man. Despite their difference in bulk, La Bola looked at Rodrigo meekly.
As soon as La Bola sat, Rodrigo approached him and punched him in the face.
“You moron, didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on the kid?”
“I was, Rodrigo! But this is Mr. Godoy’s son. I can’t just—”
“Lock him in the bedroom if that’s what it takes. What do you think Mr. Godoy will say if his son gets picked up by sanitation?”
“He said he was just going to get himself some tail,” La Bola babbled.
“Wake up, you moron. How long have you been around vamps, huh? Three years?”
La Bola raised a couple of fingers. “Two.”
“You should know better, shithead. Tail ain’t ever just tail. Not for Nick. I shouldn’t have talked your dad into letting you work for me.”
“I’m sorry, Rodrigo.”
“Just watch him, properly.”
“I will,” La Bola muttered as he rubbed his face. “Um … Rodrigo, did your contact know anything about the girl?”
“No,” Rodrigo said, irritated. “But she was in Toluca. I confirmed as much. Which means she’s here. Somewhere.”
“Hey, Rodrigo! I want pizza!”
Nick. He was probably guzzling his second bottle and aching for greasy food.
“Go take care of him,” Rodrigo told La Bola in a low voice.
La Bola dipped his head, hurrying back to the living room.
Rodrigo stretched his arms and smoothed his suit, pausing to check his black enamel cuff links. He glanced at himself in the great floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror that adorned the south wall of the office. Gray, thinning hair, parted in the middle. A web of wrinkles etched on his face. Teeth slowly yellowing. Yes, he was getting old. Maybe too old for these games. Even a vampire’s goon deserves a pension and a peaceful retirement.
He’d go live somewhere sunny. Somewhere where he’d never have to stare another bloodsucker in the face. He’d killed enough of them for Godoy.
Just one more, he thought. Just that blasted girl. How long can she run, anyway?
CHAPTER
4
Domingo woke late. He stretched his arms, propped himself up on his elbows, and reached for the hand-crank lantern. He wound it up and then lit an oil lamp and a candle for good measure.
There was no electricity in the web of narrow underground tunnels that ran downtown, but it was a free space to hang out and he didn’t mind having to maintain a mountain of lanterns on hand. Besides, Domingo did not need electricity, not when he had his comic books. He raised the lantern and looked at his special pile of vampire comic books. He had a big stash of them.