Page 35 of Race With The Devil

CHAPTER TWELVE

Unity

“I intervened because I have concerns,” said Slushy. “I’ve heard that you no longer wish to be a, shall we say, an administrator for the Bare Bones.”

The strange, ego-riddled dandy sitting across the table from us didn’t seem to be listening to Slushy. He was too busy taking a selfie with a jackalope on the wall behind him. “Hashtag Team Santiago Slayer!” he declared.

“Look,” said Slushy, clearly irritated, “will you just put the fucking phone down?”

The handsome devil drew himself up, dramatically offended. “I need to tweet to my five point six million followers!”

“That you’re in a biker bar?” asked Tanner.

“Yes!” said Santiago Slayer, as though it were completely obvious. He pointed over his shoulder. “It isn’t every day you get to see a jackalope!”

I frowned. Did he seriously think that was a real animal? This was the guy who was supposed to track down the university security tapes, and he wore a lavender scarf knotted around his neck. His glossy, wavy black hair was perfectly greying at the temples, and his tan looked sprayed on.

We’d agreed to meet with the legendary, alleged sicario at the Bum Steer. Slushy had interjected himself because he’d heard rumors that Santiago Slayer didn’t want to be a hit man anymore. Maybe offing strangers—I pictured him coolly shooting a cartel loser through the forehead with a silencer on his piece—and calmly walking away was getting to be a giant bore. Slushy was afraid Slayer wouldn’t bring the proper oomph to the job, I suppose. But both Wolf and Tobiah had tried to gain access to the university tapes and couldn’t. This was probably a job best done in person, by someone as suave as Santiago Slayer.

So yeah, I could see where he’d be useful, if his heart was really in it. This particular job wouldn’t involve burying anyone. So, if he’d gotten religion or morals, that shouldn’t stand in his way. This was actually a do-gooder job, uncovering a murderer and maybe taking down a fentanyl king along the way.

Slushy repeated himself, slicing the table with the edge of his hand. “Mr. Slayer, I have concerns that you’re losing your professional edge. I heard that the ATF almost tracked you down as being the administrator of the de la Juerte burials in Sinaloa because you stupidly sent your DNA to Ancestry dot com.”

Slayer glared down at Slushy. “I have every right to know about my excellent heritage. It reconfirmed that I am a finely-honed model of shining DNA, ninety-nine percent Iberian Peninsula!” He calmed down. “Besides, the ATF arrested my cousin twice removed instead. He had a very bad record of not paying child support.”

Slushy squeezed his eyes shut with patience. “Yes, but didn’t it occur to you the government would be able to get ahold of your DNA that way?”

“They should not!” declared Slayer. “My DNA is between me and the canals of Lisbon, me and the Roman ruins of Toledo!” He seemed to be painting an El Greco canvas with his dramatic hand.

“What’s the other one percent?” I asked.

Slayer visibly deflated, thinking about that one percent. “Africa South Central Hunter-Gatherers,” he admitted, quietly.

“That’s really fascinating,” said Tanner. “Those DNA tests only go back like three hundred years, right? Your ancestors must’ve taken some slaves from Angola or Namibia. Gorgeous area.”

Slayer still looked defeated. “The dunes of the Namib Desert come right down to the ocean at Tigers Bay, where lions can be seen sunning themselves on the Atlantic Ocean.”

Slushy held up a hand. “As interesting as that all is—I mean, I was pleasantly shocked to see I’m actually a Heinz 57 mish-mash of mainly European Jewish with dashes of Caucasus, Middle East, and Native American thrown in—“

“Cherokee?” asked Tanner.

“How’d you know? And of course, a healthy splash of the ol’ Irish, right savage!”

Now Slushy was getting sidetracked, so I asked Slayer, “Slushy said you were thinking of giving up administrating? Becoming an actor instead?”

“Yes!” Slayer said decisively. “It has long worried that tender part of my heart that I have spilled unnecessary blood in the name of righteousness.”

Tanner said, “But if it’s in the name of righteousness, what’s wrong with it?”

Slayer’s eyes became big and moist, and he pointed at his chest. “I know I have been on the right side of the war against drugs. I know I have ‘administered’ some extremely bad men.” He now pointed at the ceiling. “Never has an innocent been caught in the cross-fire when Santiago Slayer is operating! It has long been a grand play of dramatic integrity to see Slayer at work, worthy of the master Shakespeare himself! Talk about the tragedy, the drama—“

“The comedy,” inserted Tanner.

“—the grand overreaching themes of families torn apart, love gone sour, backstabbing to the utmost degree! Yes, it has been a good run for Santiago Slayer, but during my travels I’ve been in touch with many people in the business. Many people have said I would make an excellent telenovela actor in Mexico City.”

Our jaws were on the table.

Slushy was the first to recover. “So you’re out, then?”