He had been nearly killed four times, starting from the shootout at the family compound—a DEA-fired round had embedded itself in the wall an inch above his head as he lay on the floor—plus three other instances when he had been an adult and was forging his own path in life. And each time, he had never felt so alive as when he had been minutes, or even seconds, from death.
He took out an envelope from the drawer, and put five twenties in it for the maid the next day. He made a habit of taking care of working-class people because he related to them more than he did the folks with whom he did business. Many of these people had been delivered into the world already on third base and thought it was their own effort that had gotten them so close to scoring. They believed themselves entitled to the best because they had, through no effort of their own, always been given the best of everything. That made it all the sweeter when he outsmarted this “elite” class of what really turned out to be overentitled simpletons far out of a league they stupidly believed they owned.
He liked the power that money provided. He liked to make as much of it as possible because he wanted as much power as possible. But he had started making money because he had siblings to feed, and the only thing between them and starvation was . . .
Me.
It made a man careful. It made a man think before he acted. Because one mistake could be fatal, on any number of levels. But having thought things through, you were more willing to take a risk, because it was a highly calculated one.
El Cain, though he’d never met her, struck him as that sort of person, based on all he’d learned about the woman. Under different circumstances, he might have hired her to work for him. She seemed like a downtrodden person who had risen above all that life had thrown at her. He believed she would be interesting and resolute and capable of great things, given the chance. But she would not be given the chance, if he had anything to say about it. Ken had to be avenged. If Buckley let that pass, what next? Before long, he would have no principles left.
He went down to the pool area, lit a Maduro cigar, drank his wine, sat by the water, and read the responses to his previous communications. He demanded much of his associates. In return they were well paid and he had their backs, come what may. He required absolute loyalty, but unlike many in his position, he returned that loyalty. Not necessarily because it was right or fair, but because, in the end, it was in his best interests. If you threw those who sometimes disagreed with you under the bus, then they wised up, and all you were left with were sycophants. And that was like inbreeding; it made everyone stupid and weak.
He didn’t care for women like Rosa, who could have handled things so differently with Ken, or not shacked up with him in the first place. It was clear from her clumsy pass at him that she would have jumped into Buckley’s bed if he so desired. That showed no loyalty to Ken and a lack of respect to Buckley. And actions resulted in consequences. He sent out an email with Rosa’s photo attached, to an associate he had put on standby after learning of Ken’s death. The man answered and things were quickly arranged.
He went up to his room and slept deeply, with a clear conscience but a burdened mind. He rose the next morning, had his breakfast, and tidied his room, folding the used towels, laying them neatly in the corner by the tub. He checked out of the hotel, liberally tipping people along the way and receiving smiles and thanks in return.
He drove off in his rental and used the car’s Bluetooth feature to check in with his people. The results were promising.
Rosa had relapsed in her drug addiction, taking an overdose with fatal results in an alleyway behind the women’s shelter. The police were investigating, but it seemed clear that the matter would go no further than that. Buckley’s thousand dollars had been retrieved from the corpse, so no questions would arise from that. They might make inquiries into the gentleman who had been talking to Rosa yesterday in the café, but no one other than Rosa knew about his connection to Ken. And even if she had told someone about him, Buckley had a wall of respectability around him. And there was nothing unusual about a recovering addict overdosing. So that chapter on Rosa was now closed.