Free Tequila Sunset by Sam Hawken Page B

shower.
    After twenty minutes both men emerged into the hallway. Galvan had his shirtsleeves rolled up and was sweating heavily. Sosa had only loosened his tie. They helped themselves to coffee.
    “Well?” Matías asked.
    “I don’t think we’ll have to work very hard,” Sosa said.
    “Speak for yourself,” Galvan said.
    “You’re just getting old.”
    “I’ll tell you how it goes,” Matías said. “I’ll be in Interview One.”
    “We’ll get started on the others,” Galvan said.
    Matías went to the first room. Harsh light cast down on the small space from a bulb inside a mesh cage on the ceiling. The table and the chairs were bolted to the bare concrete floor. A metal rail ran alongside one end of the table and the Azteca, named Meza, was cuffed to it.
    There was surprisingly little blood, but Matías knew Sosa liked to work clean. Meza’s ribs would be covered with bruises by the time they were done, but Sosa would not break a nose or split a lip. Galvan was another story and maybe Meza would not last the night when it was the big man’s turn.
    Matías put a notepad, a thick folder and a pen on the table and took a seat across from Meza. The Azteca observed him through lidded eyes, his face blank. Matías chose a look of concern that he knew seemed genuine. He did not give a shit about Meza.
    “Eberto Meza,” Matías said. “That’s you.”
    Meza made no reply.
    “You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s you. I have your records here.” Matías put his hand on the folder. “Everything you’ve done, everywhere you’ve been.”
    “So what?” Meza said.
    “Did you like your introduction to Señor Sosa?” Matías asked. “Because if you want, I can have him come in and interview you again. Or you can talk to me.”
    This time Meza was silent again, though Matías thought he saw the young man’s cheek twitch.
    “I have six dead Salvadorans shot dead outside a club and I have a tip saying you were involved. I believe the tip. All you Aztecas, you think you’re too tough to snitch to the police, but some of you are talking.”
    “Who are you?” Meza asked.
    “My name is Matías Segura. I work for the Ministerial Federal Police.”
    “What does the fucking PFM want with me?”
    “I’m interested in anything to do with Los Aztecas.”
    “I’m not an Azteca.”
    “Do you want me to have you stripped so we can see your gang ink?”
    “All you cops are maricones .”
    “If that makes you feel better.”
    Meza fell silent again and Matías let the minutes pass by. He checked his watch. Finally he said, “I don’t have all night, Señor Meza. You can talk to me or you can talk to my colleagues.”
    “What’s in it for me?” Meza said quickly.
    “That depends on what you have to say. If you weren’t a shooter, then that can mean a lot. But if you pulled a trigger, it will be more difficult for you. What do you think your friend is telling Señor Sosa right now? I only have so many deals to make before I run out of options.”
    “Who talked about me?”
    “That would be telling.”
    “I want to know.”
    “I’m sure you do, but you’ll never find out from me.” Matías would have leaned back if the chair hadn’t been fixed to the floor. Instead he put his hands behind his head and regarded Meza evenly. “I’m not the one who’s going to spill his guts tonight.”
    “It won’t be me. I won’t,” Meza said and his voice rose. He no longer looked at Matías with calculating eyes. “You can beat the shit out of me and I won’t say a word.”
    Matías collected his things. “Then we have nothing else to talk about.”
    He rose from the table and went to the door. “Wait,” Meza said. “Don’t go.”
    Matías checked his watch again. “I told you: I don’t have all night to do this. If you have something to say, say it now. Otherwise you’ll see Señor Sosa very soon.”
    “Don’t send him back in!”
    “Then you have something for me?” Matías demanded.