“Who’re you? Put Hamilton on.”
“Whom may I say is calling?”
“Look, cut the bullshit. Give him the phone.”
“Whom may I say is calling?”
Damn bureaucrats. “Coburn.”
“I’m sorry, who did you say?”
“Coburn,” he repeated impatiently. “Lee Coburn.”
After a sustained pause, the woman at the other end said, “That’s impossible. Agent Coburn is deceased. He died more than a year ago.”
Chapter 17
Diego’s cell phone vibrated, but just to be ornery, he waited several seconds before answering it. “Who’s this?”
“Who were you expecting?” The Bookkeeper asked with matching snideness.
“Found your fugitive yet?”
“He’s proving to be more of a problem than originally thought.”
“You don’t say? Those couple of clowns really fucked up, didn’t they? Letting him get away like that.” He wanted to add, That’s what you get for not giving me the job, but decided not to press his luck. He didn’t rely solely on The Bookkeeper for income, but their business relationship—if you could even call it that—was lucrative.
For years after leaving the hair-braiding salon, he’d lived on the streets, finding shelter where he could, scavenging for food and clothing. He’d survived by a wily intellect that had come to him through some unknown contributor to his cloudy gene pool, and it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that barter, theft, and salvaging only got one so much. The only currency that mattered was money.
Diego had applied himself to earning it. He observed and learned and proved to be a quick study. The marketplace for his particular skills was limitless. His business thrived regardless of the economic climate for any other field of commerce. In fact, he was busiest whenever times got hard and the prevailing dog-eat-dog law of the jungle was more strictly enforced.
By his early teens he’d cultivated a reputation for sudden and explosive violence, so even the toughest of the tough respected his slight build and small stature and, for the most part, gave him a wide berth. He had no friends and few competitors because few were as good.
As far as the state of Louisiana was concerned, he didn’t exist. His birth had never been recorded, so he never had attended school. Although basically illiterate, he could read a smattering of English, enough to get by. He spoke fluent Spanish, which he’d picked up on the street. He couldn’t point out his hometown on a map, but he knew it like the back of his hand. He’d never even heard of long division or the multiplication tables, yet he could tabulate amounts of money in his head with lightning speed. Already he was calculating what he would charge for doing Coburn.
“So is the guy caught yet, or what?”
“No. He got Fred Hawkins.”
Diego was surprised by that, but withheld comment.
“Now everyone is really up in arms. If Coburn survives his arrest, I want you to be ready to move.”
“I’ve been ready.”
“I also may need you to take care of a woman and child.”
“That’ll cost you extra.”
“I’m prepared for that.” After a cool silence, The Bookkeeper said, “About that whore…”
“Taken care of. I told you.”
“Ah, so you did. My mind has been on other matters. I’ll be in touch.”
The call ended without another word.
None was necessary. They understood each other. They had from the start. A few years back, someone who knew someone had approached him about contract work. Was he interested? He was.