Free The Convert's Song by Sebastian Rotella Page A

jacket, no tie.
    “Inspector,” the FBI agent said with a dry, side-of-the-mouth delivery. “Somebody’s been thumping on my U.S. citizen.”
    “It is unfortunate, and I apologize in the name of the Argentine federal police,” Ferribotte replied in English, neither resentful nor obsequious.
    “Is that standard policy for material witnesses?” Furukawa asked sharply. “Give them a few trancazos to get their attention?”
    Pescatore guessed that the FBI agent had learned his Spanish in or near Mexico. The preferred Argentine term for “punches” was trompadas .
    “At the moment of his detention, he was considered a suspect, armed and dangerous,” Ferribotte responded.
    “I don’t see how the information in hand justifies that.” Furukawa sounded dispassionate and bureaucratic. “You see his shirt? He’s a former U.S. federal border agent. And a licensed private investigator. Mr. Pescatore, do you want to file a complaint of excessive force? It is my duty to offer you that option.”
    “Mainly what I’d like is some Advil,” Pescatore said. “This officer isn’t the thumper. They got a pumpkin-head gorilla talks like Foghorn Leghorn. They keep him down in the dungeon.”
    A smile flickered across the woman’s face. He saw a mane of curls, striking oval eyes, and that easy smile like a flash in the shadows.
    “You wanna file a complaint or not?” Furukawa asked.
    “No, man, let it go.”
    Ferribotte’s thin face registered relief. He led them to a squad room and stood across a counter from the FBI agent. They reviewed paperwork related to Pescatore’s custody status and the property confiscated at his apartment.
    “Listen,” Furukawa told Pescatore. “Pending further investigation, they are going to keep your stuff: passport, phones, computer, weapon. If the embassy didn’t have a relationship with your firm, it’d be hard to get you released at all.”
    The Argentine investigator offered Pescatore coffee or water. He declined both. As Pescatore signed forms, Furukawa and the Argentine conferred. Pescatore sensed movement behind him. He turned and saw Mendizábal standing with a couple of officers.
    The interrogator sipped from a gourd of mate tea. His sleeves were rolled up over brawny forearms. He raised his chin. His expression conveyed amused tolerance.
    “Come on, muchacho, it could have been worse,” he intoned in Spanish. “We don’t have time to play around in these situations.”
    Pescatore hesitated. Everyone in the room was looking at him.
    “I suppose you don’t,” he said.
    “If you were a policeman before, you know how this business works.”
    “Risks of the profession,” Pescatore replied ruefully.
    “Exactly.”
    “These things happen.”
    “That’s what I’m saying.”
    “I suppose you’re right.”
    Pescatore smiled a conciliatory smile. He stepped forward. He offered his hand.
    Mendizábal’s eyes hardened. He, too, was aware that they were the center of attention. He appeared to be evaluating risks and assessing contingencies. Slowly, cautiously, he shifted the gourd to his left hand and extended his right.
    Pescatore gave him a firm, gentlemanly handshake with sustained eye contact, like his father had taught him. He let the shake linger.
    Then he did the most immature, unprofessional, reckless thing he had done in a long time.
    He hit him.
    His last boxing match had been more than a decade ago. He had not thrown a punch in anger since leaving the Border Patrol. He was overdue. His left fist came up from down low, gathering all the fear and pain and hate and trauma of the past twenty-four hours as it rose. He turned his torso into the punch with plenty of follow-through. The fist hit the head in front of the ear, a dull thunk of bone on bone that sent shock waves back through his arm and shoulder. He grunted with effort and satisfaction.
    Mendizábal pitched to his left like a locomotive changing tracks. His mate gourd went flying. He and the gourd seemed to