Majoring in Murder

Chapter 26

Once I was inside, the door shut. I looked out the window and saw the Mexican driver standing with his back to us, keeping watch over the empty parking lot and road.

"I'm Victor Santiago," the man said, his Mexican accent thick and soothing. He extended his hand. I shook it.

He was an older man, with areas of gray creeping into his slicked back hair and a Fu Manchu-style mustache. He wore a navy blue blazer and khaki slacks with sandals. He reminded me of Carlo when we visited Florida, that Caribbean-casual look. I couldn't shake my mental image of Ricardo Montalban until I noticed the tattoos. He had a small black widow etched into the cleft of his thumb and index finger on his right hand. Gothic letters peeked over the collar of his jacket and ran up the left side of his neck. The letters, like the image of the spider, were gray and faded instead of freshly black, an indication that they were old. If not for the prison tattoos, he could have been a model of sophistication and class. The tattoos, however, screamed prison and crime. He sat with his legs crossed. A tumbler of whiskey rested in a drink holder beside him. He lifted a bottle of Chivas Regal. "Would you care for a drink?"

I eyed the bottle, desperately wanting to tell him that I did. I knew this wasn't the time or place to give in to my demons. "No, thanks."

"Thank you for meeting with me. I wasn't sure you would under the circumstances."

"What circumstances do you mean?" I asked.

Victor smiled. "I think you know what I mean. I know your profession. I would have understood your reluctance to expose yourself to someone claiming to know what it is you do when the person making the claim is a stranger."

I nodded, glanced down at my hands, then looked back up at him. "How is it you know what I do anyway?"

A slight smile formed on Victor's face. Looking at his expression and into his eyes, he appeared trustworthy and charming, but once I was able to read the tattooed word on his neck—Injustice, it said—the illusion of warm charm vanished. "One of my friends watched you leaving the neighborhood the night Hector Ramirez was murdered. He copied your license plate number."

I swallowed hard, wondering who could have seen me that night. I was in and out after the shot without seeing another person, but that didn't mean someone hadn't seen me going back to my...Of course! The house at the end of the road where I had parked. Someone there must've seen my car, watched me returning to it, and put them together after they heard what happened to Hector.

I noticed that Victor's smile never wavered. His eyes actually seemed to sparkle. "You don't want to avenge him?" I asked, reconsidering that drink offer.

"Hector was sloppy and conceited. He deserved what he got. His death annoyed me more than anything because it set my operation back a few weeks, but I can easily replace him. I need your help so I can expand my business, Jason."

"How do you think I can help expand your business? What is your business anyway?" More than likely drugs, but I wanted to hear it from his mouth.

Victor held up his hand, the index finger extended, indicating for me to wait. "How much do you get paid per job?"

Victor's question made me think of the blackmail. "Nothing," I said. "I don't get paid for doing any of this."

My answer didn't seem to faze Victor. He only pursed his lips and nodded. Perhaps embarrassed for me. "So, how are you compensated? What do you get out of it?"

I looked at my hands again. I was angry at my sense of embarrassment. "Nothing happens to my family if I do my job."

He lifted a small leather satchel from the floor between his feet. "What would you say if I were to offer you a million dollars for only one job?"