The Devil's Bag Man by Adam Mansbach

Author:Adam Mansbach
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-06-04T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 23

So what do you want from me?” Nichols asked.

“Your help. Cualli will destroy Galvan, if he has not already. It is only a matter of time. And if that happens—”

“Let me guess: we’re fucked.”

“In so many words. Even in his decrepitude, unable to leave his lair, Cualli has held organized crime by the balls for the last hundred years.”

“Now there’s an image.” Nichols glanced over at Fuentes. “You’re pretty quiet over there, Miguel.”

“Just taking it all in, cabrón. Who’s ready for another beer?” He stood, grabbed their empty bottles off the table, and strode toward the bar.

“So, what?” Nichols asked. “You think Galvan’s gonna listen to me, is that it? Assuming he’s still Galvan?”

“That’s what I’m hoping, yes.”

“And I’m telling him . . . what, that the jig is up and we know Cucuy’s in there, so . . .”

Nichols threw up his hands, at a loss to complete the sentence.

“You are telling him there’s only one scenario that does not result in utter catastrophe.”

“You want him to kill himself.”

“Yes and no.”

“Yes and no,” Nichols repeated, craning his head, suddenly eager for another beer.

“If Galvan kills himself, Cualli will die with him. But Tezcatlipoca’s power will not. It will be restored to the god. And he will return from his exile, to a world where none remain who can oppose him.”

“That’s bad?”

“That’s bad.”

“We don’t want a psycho Aztec god rampaging through the world, is what you’re saying.”

“You catch on fast, Sheriff.”

“Always been a quick study, Cortador.”

Maybe a second beer wasn’t a good idea after all. Nichols was feeling drunk enough already.

Right on cue, Fuentes returned, balancing three Pacificos and three brimming shot glasses on a tray.

“I thought we could use these,” he said, distributing the tequila.

Nichols tossed his back straightaway, to avoid finding out how clinking glasses with a crime lord would make him feel.

“But he would die, though,” he said, as the liquor blazed a path down his throat. “Galvan.”

“There is a ritual. A way of excising Cualli from the world—unmaking him, as it were. But it will not be easy. And it must be undertaken willingly.”

Nichols chased the liquor with beer, felt the icy trickle reach his stomach, and wondered when he’d last eaten.

“Believe me, Sheriff. At this point, there is no coming back for your friend.”

That struck him as true, and Nichols sighed.

“Well,” he said slowly, “he was willing to die before. To save his daughter. When he ate that heart.”

He fell silent, felt Rubacalo’s eyes bore into him.

“Maybe it’s time for him to finish what he started,” Nichols said quietly.

Rubacalo nodded. “Destroying Cualli.”

Nichols looked up at him. “No. Dying.”

Fuentes hadn’t touched his tequila. Nichols reached over, grabbed the glass, and gave the liquor a nice warm home.

“You got a fucking plan?” he asked his new buddy the drug lord.

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