Death of a Matador

By Everett Powers

In the dusty little Central California city of Stevinson, a matador enters a bullfight arena to face twelve hundred pounds of muscle and fury. He engages the bull and leads it through his cape with grace and flair until his legs and arms go numb: he’s been drugged. When his paralyzed arms drop the cape, the bull rams a horn into his liver and that’s it for the matador.

The killer didn’t mean for the man to die, but oh well. He wasn’t about to go to jail for it, though, so he tracks down the guy he paid to give the matador the spiked water, bashes him with a piece of rebar, and dumps him into a ditch. No witness, no jail. Imagine his surprise when his picture shows up in the paper later that week. Now he’s gotta kill someone else.

Instead of attending the bullfight, the mayor of Stevinson, Manny Dutra, is negotiating with pot growers who want to grow their quasi-legal product in his city. He squeezes three hundred grand out of them, a nice “commission,” but he’s gotta get the ultra conservative and religious city council to approve the deal. He’ll get it done because he knows who’s been doing what behind closed doors.

When one of the council figures out what he’s up to, Manny kills her to save the deal. As the week progresses, the cops are all over him and his constituents, hardworking religious Portuguese farmers and dairymen, are on his case because they can’t believe he wants to let someone grow drugs in their town. If he can just hold things together for six days he can collect his graft and split.

Too bad for Manny and the matador’s killer, Detective Grant Starr is asked to assist the Sheriff’s Department solve the murders.

Can Grant, his hot girlfriend and fellow detective Amber Whitehall, friend Detective Ralph Bensen, and Detective John McKay of the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department bring the killers to justice?

In his follow-up to the thrilling THE MIGHTY T, Powers takes his readers for a wild ride inside the close-knit Central California Portuguese community, with their religious festivals and bloodless bullfights. A world rich in tradition. DEATH OF A MATADOR.

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A thriller sure to please fans of John Sandford, Michael Connelly, and Nelson Demille. This is the second Grant Starr novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Everett Powers
• Release date: Jan 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301851737

Everett Powers

Everett Powers is the author of THE MIGHTY T, DEATH OF A MATADOR, SUNSET HILL, and THE KING OF ROUND VALLEY, Grant Starr thrillers, and CANALS, a horror novel. He's currently working a new novel set in the future. He lives in Utah with his wife. The kids are close and the mountains are beautiful.

Book preview

DEATH OF A MATADOR

By Everett Powers

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Everett Powers

ISBN 9781301851737

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, entities, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No reproduction of any of this work whatsoever may be done without the express written permission by the author.

Chapter 1 — Monday

THE MATADOR, DRESSED IN tight high-waisted pants and a brightly-colored jacket, watched the bull burst through a gate to his right, then veer right, its eye drawn by a pink cape a junior matador had draped over the five-foot wooden wall encircling the arena. Unable to resist the movement of the cape, the bull charged; the junior matador yanked the cape back a split second before the bull’s horns would have shredded it. The bull thundered by, half a ton of fury and muscle.

Fifty feet ahead, another junior matador, standing inside the arena but close to the wall, caught the bull’s eye. He waved his red cape for a few seconds, then leapt over the wall ahead of the bull’s charge.

The third junior matador, the most experienced, stood fifteen feet from the wall, across the arena from the entrance gate. He flapped his yellow cape and the bull charged, dirt and sand flying as its hooves dug deep. The man sidestepped the charging bull, raising the cape as the bull passed, then spun around and flapped the cape again, to regain the bull’s attention.

The bull turned, shook its head, pawed at the ground and bellowed, fixed its black eyes on the cape, lowered his head and charged. The man led the bull through the cape again, and the bull swung around and pawed at the ground again.

The other two junior matadors were by now positioned behind the wall, thirty feet on either side of the man with the yellow cape. The pink cape was draped over the wall, to distract and freeze the bull, to dissipate a little of its fury. It was withdrawn seconds later and the yellow cape flapped, and the bull charged, but it had lost speed. The red cape appeared over the wall in front of the bull, further slowing and confusing it.

The three junior matadors thus engaged the bull for five minutes, drawing it through the yellow cape inside the arena time and time again.

The matador watched the bull with a trained eye, and noticed how its head listed to the right while charging; he made a mental note to stay on its left and adjust his movements to allow for the list. Although the bull’s horns had been filed down, they could still kill. This bull was also exceptionally agile and more energetic than the preceding five bulls, and looked as if it weighed twelve hundred pounds. It was the last bull of the evening, and the best was saved for last.

Having given the matador sufficient time to study the bull’s movements, the man with the yellow cape vaulted the wall. The bull charged him one last time, butting the wooden wall with a thud that echoed around the stadium.

The matador strutted toward the bull, preening for the crowd as matadors do, and fanned open an orange cape, bigger and brighter than the junior matadors’ capes—the movement immediately caught the bull’s attention.

Bull and matador locked eyes for several seconds before the bull threw back its head, bellowed, and charged. The matador led the bull through the cape with flair and grace, displaying the masterful footwork learned in his native Portugal. The bull charged the cape again, and the matador led it through again.

He led the bull around the arena for five minutes, staying close to the wall in case he needed to make a quick escape.

Then, at the wall, the matador grabbed a brightly-colored three-foot-long flag with a Velcro tip, handed to him by a junior matador. Moving back into the arena, he engaged the bull, led it through his cape and leapt, thrusting the Velcro-tipped flag onto a pad secured to the bull’s back. The crowd responded with light applause; the matador bowed, while keeping an eye on the bull.

Mindful of the bull’s right-list, the matador led the bull around the arena until his vision began to blur at the periphery. He shook his head as the bull passed through the cape. His vision cleared for several seconds, then blurred again, this time encroaching to the center. He knew he should signal the junior matadors to distract the bull so he could escape, but he’d never had to do that. His next bullfight would be his first as a pro; he didn’t want the memory of him running to the wall like a woman diminishing that milestone.

Sweating, with a blurry film over his eyes, he led the bull by, and his left leg went numb. He stumbled, but played his feet into his routine. The numbness spread to the right leg. He stepped to the left as the bull charged again and his left arm began tingling.

His left eye went blind and he dropped the cape.

The bull, no longer distracted by the cape, ran its right horn into the matador’s gut, lacerating his liver.

The matador fell and the bull gored and stomped him until it was drawn away by the junior matadors’ capes. The crowd, familiar with the element of danger, but not serious injury, fell silent. The senior junior matador knelt by the wounded man, then frantically signaled for help. Six men jumped into the arena, picked the matador up, carried him to the wall and hoisted him over to the paramedics, who couldn’t enter an arena with a loose bull. The paramedics checked his vitals, then hustled him to the ambulance where he was examined by the doctor on duty. The doctor jumped out of the ambulance, shook his head, then watched the vehicle speed off toward the nearest hospital, thirteen miles north in Turlock.

A white man, who stood out in the mostly-Portuguese crowd packed into the bullfight stadium in Stevinson, California, slipped through the gate into a field crammed with parked cars and trucks. He’d parked across the street on the lawn in front of the church, backing in so he could be on the road quickly, and so his Ford Escape hybrid wouldn’t get covered with shit-kicker dust. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to drive to this godforsaken dust bowl, where the wind blew twenty-to-thirty miles per hour, to watch a bunch of wetbacks in tight pants torture bulls. And park in the dirt.

The bull killing the matador was pure Karma. He’d smiled when he’d heard the ambulance leave, its siren blasting once it hit the highway. He never expected the guy to die. He’d done it for the negative publicity, something the animal rights bloggers could run with for a few months. Oh well. His death would prove ten times more valuable.

Drunk young men, with layers of muscles bulging under T-shirts, loitered in the parking lot, flexing and posturing for teenage girls who wore too much makeup, and clothes that were too tight. Violence bristled in the air, so he kept the bill of his cap pulled low, hoping to slip through the crowd unnoticed.

Out of the parking lot and across the busy two-lane highway, he fired his truck up and pointed it north toward Turlock, where he had a room at the Candlewood Suites off Highway 99. Halfway there, a lone sheriff’s car, running silent with its rack-lights on, passed him going south.

Twenty minutes later, he lay awake on the hotel bed pondering how it felt to be a murderer. He hadn’t done it on purpose, so, if he was caught, he would be charged with second-degree murder, not first-degree.

Still, that would land him a nice long prison sentence. If he was caught.

He kicked it around for half an hour before deciding being responsible for a man’s death didn’t bother him all that much. The guy shouldn’t have been torturing bulls, and the State of California shouldn’t have let him. It had to end.

# # #

Security at the stadium consisted of ten private security personnel and four Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department Deputies. Two deputies, Hank Johnson and Benny Ramirez, were outside opening sandwiches they’d bought at the concession stand—Ramirez grilled pork, Johnson linguiça—when the matador began experiencing symptoms.

Ramirez took a bite and said, quietly, to Johnson, You’d think Portuguese food would be like Mexican food, but it’s not. This sandwich is nothing more than meat on a white roll. Did you see any mayo packets at the snack bar, or mustard? Hot sauce? Anything?

You shoulda got the linguiça, Johnson said. He took another bite. It is kinda dry, though. Why don’t you go see if they have any mayo.

Ramerez was on his way to the snack bar when the bull demolished the matador’s liver. The crowd’s cry stopped him in his tracks.

He hustled back to Johnson, who wrapped up his sandwich and said, What was that?

Ramirez tossed his sandwich into a trash can. Didn’t sound right. We better go look. They walked up the cement ramp leading to the arena.

The other two deputies, Ned Hobson and Darrell Lester, were inside the stadium in the stands, on opposite sides, keeping a lazy eye on the crowd. They were called Salt and Pepper by the rest of the department; Hobson was white and Lester was black, and they were always together.

When the crowd gasped, the deputies looked into the arena with a somewhat interested eye, because of the unusual nature of the gasp. They looked too late to see the bull gore the matador, but did see it stomp and kick him. Once the bull was distracted, the unconscious matador was carried to the wall and hoisted over. Five minutes later, they heard the whine of the ambulance as it sped toward Turlock.

Fifteen minutes later, Hobson radioed Lester and said, Did you hear the guy died?

The guy the bull got? I figured it was serious when he left in the ambulance, but ... dead?

We better get back there, see what’s going on. I’m sensing a shitload of paperwork.

They made their way to the staging area behind the stadium, where the bulls were kept and the bullfight participants waited for their turn to perform. People were crossing themselves with bowed heads, and a few tears ran down dusty cheeks.

A man, dressed in the brightly-colored clothes of the bullfight participants, was in a heated discussion with another man. When the deputies caught his eye, he hustled over to them and said, Hey, hey you cops. Someting bad happened to Miguel! You gotta do someting!

Who’re you? Hobson said.

John Lemos. Did you see him, see Miguel? He was staggering just before ... before da bool got him. His upper lip was beaded with moisture; he wiped it away with a sleeve. His chin trembled.

Hobson said, I didn’t see anyone stagger. But then, I wasn’t looking.

I didn’t see no one stagger, either, said the man Lemos had been talking to. He’d stepped in to listen to what Lemos was telling the cops. You’re just upset, John. We’re all upset.

Lemos grabbed Lester by the arm, was about to make his plea when Lester glowered at him and said, What do you think you’re doing? Lester was six-two and big. Frighteningly big.

Please, Lemos said, letting go of Lester’s arm. Someting happened to Miguel. He too good to be killed by da bool like that. He done a hundred boolfights and not once a bool touched him.

Sorry, Lester said, but accidents happen, man.

Lemos pressed: He never make mistake, and he’s healthy. His heart is goot and he don’t take no pills. He don’t even drink.

Lester frowned, and Hobson said, with a shrug, Sorry about your friend.

The other man said, That bull was a wild one, John. And you saw how big he was; he was the biggest bull we’ve had all season. Miguel just had an accident.

No! Someting wrong with him! Lemos said. You saw him drop his capa, didn’t you? You never seen Miguel drop his capa before.

Another man, dressed like Lemos, joined the group and said, Miguel did look sick, right there before the bull got him. He was, you know, staggering.

See! Lemos said. You cops gonna do someting or what?

Hobson looked at Lemos and said, Okay, tell me what you think happened.

Lemos didn’t know what had happened, but was so passionate with his plea that the deputies went off to find other people to talk to, to see if anyone else had seen anything. Eventually Lester talked to a guy named Paul Rosal who said someone asked him to give a bottle of water to the matador. Lester didn’t push him about it because Rosal left part of the story out: he’d been given a hundred bucks to deliver the bottle of water. Rosal knew if he told the cops about the money, they would take it. A hundred bucks was more than he’d ever made in a day.

But when Lester questioned Paul Rosal’s buddy Andy Fosco ten minutes later, Andy gave Paul up. He told Lester, who scared him because he was so big, Paul said some white guy gave him a hundred bucks just to give Miguel a bottle of his water. He didn’t tell you?

Lester said, He told me someone asked him to give the water to Miguel, but he failed to mention he was paid a hundred dollars to do it. Frowning, he looked around for Rosal. What else did he tell you?

Fosco, seeing Lester’s frown, realized he probably should have kept his mouth shut. He said, He didn’t say nothin’ else. It was probably nothin’. He just was ... you know, the guy gave him a hundred bucks. He cast his eyes down, away from Lester.

Did you see the guy give Paul the money, or the water? Lester said, looking at his notepad for a guy named Paul Rosal. He found it.

I didn’t see nothin’. Paul told me. I seen the hundred dollar bill, though. He showed it to me.

Don’t go anywhere.

Fosco nodded.

Lester left to look for Paul Rosal, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead of thinning, the crowd behind the stadium had gotten bigger; people were everywhere. Lester thought Rosal could be standing next to him and he wouldn’t know it. Except for the performers, every male at the bullfight was wearing the same outfit: jeans and a dark long sleeved shirt, over a T-shirt. And boots.

He returned to Fosco, who’d waited like he’d been told, and got Rosal’s address. A few minutes later, Hobson, who’d been talking to other bullfight participants, walked up and Lester told him what Fosco had said.

Hobson said, We better call it in.

The detective on duty that night was John McKay. Lester told McKay what had happened, that a matador had been killed by a bull and that there might’ve been foul play, and he described the potential foul play.

McKay said, Huh. That does sound a little hinky. Where is this place?

In Stevinson.

How many guys you got there?

Six. We usually have four, but Bryant and Ash showed up shortly after the ambulance left.

You need to try and find that bottle, and you need to go find the guy who gave it to the matador.

Lester said, There must have been four thousand people here. Or more. Most were drinking beer, but there were a lot of bottles of water drank, too.

Well, look in the trash cans around where the victim was, or wherever he was when the guy gave him the water. If it’s got a different label, it should be easy to find. Don’t let anyone haul the trash off, either. We may need to get some crime scene people there in the morning to go through it, if you don’t find the bottle tonight.

That sounded like a lot of dirty work to Lester, rooting around in trash cans. Whoever had to do it would smell like the food here the rest of their shift: a big spicy garlicky stink. He said to McKay, All right. I’ll get things secured here, then go look for the guy who took the money.

He clicked off and returned to the small huddle of deputies, and Lemos, who gave him an anxious look. Lester said to Lemos, Why don’t you give us a little privacy?

Lemos left and Lester explained what McKay had said, and told the other four deputies, McKay said you guys gotta go through the garbage. See if you can find the bottle. It should have a different label than the ones they sell here, which came from Costco. So bag anything that doesn’t say ‘Kirkland’ on it. The four assigned to root through the garbage grumbled while gloving up.

With things somewhat organized, Lester and Hobson dragged Andy Fosco to the parking lot so they could follow him to Rosal’s house. They followed Fosco for fifteen minutes to a tiny house, maybe five hundred square feet, three miles east of Hilmar. The place was dark, lit only by a yellow bug light over the front door.

With a key attached to his key chain, Fosco unlocked and opened the front door.

Hobson said, Why do you have a key to his place?

I live here, too. And we work on the same dairy. They stepped into the house, Fosco flipped the light on, walked back to the bedroom, poking his head into the bathroom as he passed by. He called from the bedroom, Looks like Paul’s not home yet. He’s probably out drinking, then joined the deputies in the front room.

Hobson said, What time do you think he’ll be back? Does he have a cell phone?

He’s got a cell phone, but that’s it on the table. Fosco pointed to an old flip-phone laying on the kitchen table. He don’t work tomorrow so he might not be back for a while. If he’s not buying drinks, a hundred bucks could last him until they shut the bars down.

Hobson said, Where’s he like to drink? Can’t be that many bars in Hilmar.

There’s Dick’s, The Flying Bull, and Eddie’s. Eddie’s and Dick’s are cheaper, but Paul has a hundred bucks so he might be drinking at The Flying Bull.

Lester said, I don’t really remember what he looks like. Why don’t you come along? You can drive his car back.

He’s got a truck.

Okay. You can drive his truck back.

You gonna arrest him? Man, he’s gonna be pissed at me.

I don’t know if he’ll be arrested or not, Lester said. But at the least he has to come in and make a statement.

They left and drove to The Flying Bull, predicting Rosal would be in the mood to splurge. He wasn’t, so they went to Eddie’s. He wasn’t at Eddie’s either, but they found him at Dick’s, which turned out to be a dive, drinking with three young men in their twenties and thirties.

When the deputies and Fosco approached Rosal’s table, Rosal looked up at Lester and said, Oh, shit. His eyes flicked toward the back of the bar.

Don’t even think about it, Lester said. If we have to chase you down we’re gonna be real pissed. You need to settle your bill Mr. Rosal and come with us; there’s something you forgot to tell me tonight.

Ah man, I don’t know what you’re talking abo— Rosal’s eyes flicked to his roommate, the only person he’d told about the hundred bucks, then back to Lester; the denial died in his throat.

Let’s go, Lester said, and Hobson stepped around the table.

Okay, okay, Rosal said. Then, to his friends, You guys’ turn to pay. I already bought you a bunch of drinks.

His friends were looking up at Lester when they nodded to Rosal.

The deputies led Rosal out of the bar, and Hobson said to him, You’d better give your keys to your buddy here. You can ride with us to the station.

Then how’m I gonna get home?

Call a cab, or call someone’s who’s sober. The sheriff’s department isn’t going to drive you home.

Rosal grumbled and handed his keys to Fosco, and said to him, You should come and get me since you called the cops on me.

No way, I gotta get up at four. I’m going to bed when I get home. Sorry. He hustled to Rosal’s truck without looking back.

Rosal and the deputies climbed into the deputies’ car and drove off toward the substation in Turlock.

# # #

They met in a private room in the back of a Mexican restaurant called Maria’s, in the little town of Gustine, just over the county line.

After dinner, the waitress sat a pitcher of margaritas on the table and left. Mayor Mateus Dutra, the duly elected mayor of Stevinson, grabbed it and filled his glass with green slush, spilling some on the table, then filled the others’ glasses. The woman, Laken Kinney, sipped hers, resisted the urge to spit it back into the glass, then pushed the glass away. To her right, Lorne Eames flicked his eyes at the mayor, hoping he hadn’t seen what Kinney had done; he’d missed it. He elbowed her in the ribs.

Kinney got the hint and pulled her glass back, took another sip. It tasted of cheap tequila and artificially colored and flavored slop—the premixed crap they dumped into a margarita machine hopper: an adult Slurpee. She couldn’t taste a drop of real lime juice. And the food ... cheap was the only word that came to mind.

She wanted the deal done tonight, didn’t ever want to see the mayor’s fat ugly face again, or his shiny head and ridiculous comb-over. His cheap Timex made to look like a Rolex DateJust. They were already over budget, and she was having second thoughts. But deal or no deal, she wanted it over tonight.

To her right was Ronnie Arnold. Ronnie hit his margarita hard, downing a third of it, risking brain-freeze. He wasn’t as choosy as Kinney about his liquor, but couldn’t understand why the mayor didn’t order something better, something top shelf. Valley Unified Growers would be picking up the bill tonight, they should be knocking back shots of a good aged 100% blue agave tequila, backed with a good Mexican beer. Dos Equis or Moledo. Even Corona.

Everyone called the mayor Manny, even his enemies, of which he had more than a few.

What you’re offerin’ Stevinson is great, Manny said. Sixty grand a month would do wonders for the city.

‘Up to’ sixty thousand, Eames said. We guarantee twenty-five. It’ll depend on our sales, of course.

Manny waved a hand at Eames. Yeah, yeah. That’s what I meant.

Manny had done his due diligence: these people were loaded. If they wanted to grow pot inside Stevinson City limits, they’d have to take care of more than the city. They’d have to take care of him, too.

He said, Your offer of fifty thousand ain’t enough. I want two hundred.

He left the amount there, hanging in the old-grease air of Maria’s back room.

Kinney’s jaw dropped. You’re trying to extort us, you—

Eames jumped in: Mayor Dutra—

But Manny cut them off: I told you to call me Manny. Then, with a stony tone, And I don’t wanna hear you whine about money. You’re gonna make millions sellin’ potheads their dope.

This is a legal operation, Eames said. "We’ll be growing medical marijuana, not pot. Our product will only be sold through registered dispensaries."

Whatever, Manny said. He fixed his eyes on Eames, whom he’d correctly figured was the top dog. The other man, the young one, looked liked a pothead himself. And he had no idea why the two men had allowed the woman to tag along. She was a tight bitch, didn’t touch her dinner because it wasn’t good enough for her. I don’t care who smokes that shit as long as I get my cut, up front.

Manny drank every day, but had never touched anything like pot or drugs. But if others wanted to dope themselves up because they had a backache, he didn’t give a shit.

What he’d learned when first approached by Valley Unified Growers was, medical pot was in limbo in California. The voters had made it legal to smoke it in the state, if you had a prescription from a quack doctor, but the feds still considered it illegal, regardless of what the state said. Places that sold pot could get shut down by the feds, if the feds felt like shutting them down. And the feds occasionally felt like shutting some of the pot sellers down for reasons they kept to themselves.

He’d read about a case in Modesto where two guys had been selling pot in town, in a so-called legal dispensary. They were raking in a hundred grand a month. Although they were supposed to be non-profit—what a joke—the guys had been buying up luxury cars and pimp-bling necklaces, throwing their money around. Then they made the fatal mistake of making some kind of music video, a rap thing where they’d bragged about what they were doing and how the cops couldn’t touch them because it was legal in California. The video had pissed some fed off and not only were they shut down, they were thrown in federal prison for twenty years.

If two stupid potheads in Modesto could rake in a hundred grand a month, and Valley Unified Growers was offering the city of Stevinson twenty-five to sixty grand a month to grow pot inside their city limits, there was plenty of money to be made by all. Including him.

Two hundred hell, he bet he could get more out of them. How many cities would risk signing a deal like this, risk the feds coming in and making who knows what kind of trouble? Stevinson was probably their only option.

Manny, Eames said. He was from some island once part of the British Empire and spoke with a slight accent, which irked Manny. I thought we agreed on fifty. I thought we had a deal. Two hundred is too much. Especially since can’t write it off.

It’s outrageous! Kinney said. We won’t pay it. We’ll take our business somewhere else and you and Stevinson will get nothing.

Manny had seen enough liars—hell, he was one of the best—to know this bitch was lying. He said, Stevinson will get its twenty-five to sixty and I’ll get my two hundred, or you’ll have nowhere to grow your pot.

Manny had a mayor face, friendly and concerned, and he had his real face, hard, selfish, and brutal. He wore his real face tonight.

It was time to crank things up a notch. He said, Fuck this, to get a rise out of the woman. She flinched. I want three hundred grand now. You bitch again and it’ll be four hundred. He took turns fixing his eye on each of the pot growers.

Eames immediately regretted bringing Kinney. VUG was largely funded by her, or her group of investors, but her mouth had just cost them a hundred thousand dollars. And maybe the deal. He’d misjudged the mayor. Stevinson had a population of two thousand; he’d thought he’d be dealing with a hick.

He said, We’re going to have to take that number back to the board. It may be too much for them.

Bullshit, Manny said. You guys are the board. You run things, the bitch there holds the purse strings, and the stoner’s gonna build the greenhouses and grow the pot. You make the deal now or go grow your shit somewhere else.

He was pretty sure he had them, but was a little concerned he’d pushed too hard. He couldn’t care less what Stevinson got, he’d only run for mayor so he could jerk people around and sell more insurance. If he got this score he didn’t see himself hanging around until the end of his term.

Eames looked at Kinney, who was furious, and then at Ronnie, who was now very sorry he’d come along: he was rapidly losing the buzz he’d gotten smoking a joint in the john. He finished his margarita and refilled his glass.

Eames said to Manny, Can you excuse us for a few minutes?

Sure, sure. Manny stood. You guys talk it over, take all the time you need. I gotta use the can, anyway. I’ll be in the bar.

When he’d left, Kinney said to Eames, Three hundred thousand! Have you lost your mind? That man is blackmailing us! Let’s walk. She set her jaw.

Eames said, He’s a revolting pig, but if we can get the deal signed in a couple of weeks and start construction next month, we could be harvesting in the fall and be in full production next year. If we have to find a new location, it might set us back a year. Think about how much we can make in a year.

They all knew the numbers, but Kinney knew them the best. Her investors wanted a return, and although marijuana dispensaries and growers had to be registered as not-for-profit, there were millions to be made. When the feds finally legalized medical marijuana, there’d be billions.

Eames could see her giving in, so to give her time to cool off, he asked Ronnie, Do you still think the location will work?

It’ll work. Ronnie began drumming his index fingers on the table.

Are you one hundred percent sure?

Yeah, Ronnie drummed. It’s all the same when you’re growing in a greenhouse. You can control almost everything. All we need is a steady water supply.

Eames turned back to Kinney. What do you say, Laken? Will there be a problem getting the additional two hundred and fifty thousand by next week? I believe that’s when he said the council would vote on it.

She had thought it through. The cash won’t be a problem. But he doesn’t get a cent until the paperwork is signed.

Eames nodded. That’s the deal. No money until everything’s official.

Ronnie poured the remaining mostly-melted margarita into his glass and drained it, then started in on the leftover chips and salsa.

Did you smoke before the meeting? Kinney asked him.

No. I been with you, remember?

Kinney frowned, knowing Ronnie was stoned because of his behavior. If he wasn’t so good at managing the greenhouses...

Manny left the back room, peeked into the dining area to see if anyone looked familiar, no one did, then went to the bar. The room was dark, had several occupied tables and a bar with three empty stools. He slid onto one of the stools and waited for someone to take his order.

He knew he had them, and he’d been smart enough to get another two-fifty. They were back there bitching about what a bastard he was, but they’d pay. They had nowhere else to go.

A waitress wandered in to check on the tables, did, saw Manny sitting at the bar. Would you like something, señor?

Gimme a Tecati, draft, he snapped, making the woman jump. And I don’t wanna see two inches of foam. He didn’t need his mayor face in Gustine. This wasn’t even his county.

She set the beer in front of him and hurried out of the bar.

By the time he was summoned back, Manny had downed three shots of tequila and two beers, in anticipated celebration.

What’s it gonna be, folks? Manny said, after taking his seat. Do we got a deal? You ready to grow your shit and make some money?

Eames said, We have a deal. I have to admit, though, I’m a little worried the city council won’t sign on.

Manny grinned. The council will do what I tell them. I got three of them by the balls and the other two are pussies. Besides, if they don’t sign, you don’t gotta pay me.

You said your council meets this Wednesday...

That’s right. I’ll bring the measure up, then a week has to go by before they can vote on it. I’ll call an emergency session next week and make damn sure they vote for it. I’m gonna talk to each one of the council members this week, privately. They’ll jump at it. Stevinson’s damn near broke.

Manny ordered another beer, to help him mull over the task at hand, paying with cash the pot growers left for a tip.

He’d lied to them; it would not be easy to get the city council to approve the deal. Stevinson’s two thousand citizens were primarily of Portuguese or Mexican descent; Catholics every one. The Portuguese were very active in their church, which held parades and festivals from March to November. There was no end to the events he had to attend as mayor. If the citizens were asked if they wanted a large-scale pot growing operation just outside of town, it’d be shot down nine to one. It had to be passed by the city council or it wouldn’t happen.

There were five on the council, three men and two women, each drawing three hundred dollars a month. He’d had a brief affair with one of the women, one of the few affairs he’d had that hadn’t ended in a nasty way. He’d get her vote if for no other reason than they’d once had sex on the kitchen counter in the Pentecost hall.

But he needed three votes. Two of the four remaining council members were religious to the point of being fanatics: a tough sell. He’d beaten one, a woman, in the last election, so there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d get her vote.

He didn’t have any of them by the balls, as he’d boasted, but he did have a little dirt on a couple. One was a dairyman he’d heard was doping his cows with something the USDA wasn’t testing for yet, to get them to produce more milk. There was blackmail potential there. The other was a high school teacher he’d heard was a little too friendly with a female student. He could threaten to lay a rumor out there, get it circulating around town. The guy might be fired or forced to resign, or arrested. The threat of the rumor alone should be enough to get his vote.

Or it might piss the teacher off. Manny wasn’t sure which way he’d go, he didn’t know him that well.

He finished his beer, pocketed the rest of the tip and left.

# # #

Lester and Hobson had put Paul Rosal in an interrogation room, with a large cup of cop coffee, shortly before eleven. At eleven-thirty, when Detective McKay was ready to talk to him, Rosal had sobered up some, but was wired; he rarely drank coffee. And he was a little pissed, which wasn’t like him but is what happened when he’d had too much caffeine. Which was why he rarely drank coffee.

McKay said to Hobson and Lester, Did he say anything on the way?

He said plenty, Hobson said. We had to read him his rights to get him to shut up.

Why don’t you come in with me, if you’re still on, McKay said. You can tell me later if he switches up his story.

Lester said, The room’s wired, so we can listen out here. Or we can go in with you. Whatever you want.

Why don’t you come in. He’s less likely to start lying that way and I don’t wanna be here all night.

What if he clams up? Hobson said. Can we hold him?

McKay shook his head. We’d have to let him go. Tox report on the victim won’t be back until at least Wednesday, so we don’t even know if a crime’s been committed. One of you stand behind me and the other behind Rosal.

They entered the room and McKay took the chair across from Rosal. Lester leaned on the wall behind McKay and crossed his arms, looking mean and angry. Hobson went around the table and stood behind Rosal.

Rosal watched the deputies position themselves,