Читать книгу Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea - Merline Lovelace, Merline Lovelace - Страница 10

El Tiburón. The nickname echoed in Liz’s head all day. She’d heard about the man from various sources during her months in Mexico, and what she’d heard was not good.

She drove home after work to peel off her sweat-soaked flight suit and to shower. Cool and comfortable in flip-flops, jeans and sleeveless cotton blouse, she got back in the Jeep and navigated the narrow streets to her favorite cantina for dinner. A few tourists wandered through the shops, but most had retreated to the luxury resorts strung along the cliffs for cocktails by the pool.

El Poco Lobo was crowded with shop owners, street vendors and boatmen back from fishing charters and swim or snorkeling tours. The locals jammed elbow to elbow at the smoky bar. Empty Corona bottles filled with red pebbles formed a pyramid against the flyspecked mirror backing the bar. Liz usually ate at one of the rickety tables outside, but the cantina owner waved her inside.

“Hola, Elizabeth.”

“Hola, Anita.”

Avid interest filled the woman’s black eyes. “Is it true what we hear? You were at the beach last night?”

“Yes. What’s the special this evening?”

“Beans and roast pork. I will get you a dish and you will tell us what happens, yes?”

Hunching over her heaping plate of succulent carne asada, Liz did her best to play down her role in the night’s events. Yes, she’d heard the shots, she said in a reprise of her conversation with Subcommandante Rivera. No, she didn’t see who fired them. And no, she didn’t know who’d been shot until Jorge told her this morning.

She managed to dodge most of the more persistent of her questioners. Unfortunately, she couldn’t dodge the two men who were waiting for her when she parked her Jeep in its usual place under the droopy jacaranda tree that shaded the stairs to her apartment.

The two tough-looking strangers stepped from behind the massive, twisted trunk. One was short and squat and walked with a limp. The other wore a lavender shirt, pleated black slacks and black-and-white wingtip shoes. The wingtips were bad enough. The shoulder holster he didn’t bother to conceal was worse.