Raul Mendoza picked up his cigar, lay across the couch and blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “Please, Brian Newell. Tell me how I can help you.”
“Raul, I have a problem with a homeless woman in the park. She needs services. I’m not sure who in the city handles the needs of the homeless.”
“The needs of the homeless? That’s rich.”
“She may have mental health issues.”
“Most of them do.”
“She dresses in all white. Every day she throws garbage from the seawall into the bay. Overnight security can’t catch her. She moves like a ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“Yes, she wraps her head in a white turban and her body in a white sheet.”
“Raul,” Nelly called from the outer office.
He turned his head toward the door and shouted, “In a meeting.”
“We got company.”
“Repeat.”
“We got…” Something muffled her voice.
The sound of a struggle came from the door’s far side.
Brian turned toward the door.
A man yelled, “Shit, she kicked me.”
Another, “The bitch bites, too.”
Raul sat up and reached across the coffee table, handing Brian his cigar. “Please hold this.”
“Sure,” Brian said, taking the cigar.
Raul crossed the room, pushed his desk against the wall beneath the windows, scrambled onto its top, unlocked two latches and pushed the windows open. He reached back for the gilt framed photo of him and LeBron James leapt out through the opening, turned back and pushed the windows closed.
The office door’s frosted glass shattered as it burst inward.
Five masked men in black tactical gear, from baseball caps to webbed boots, swarmed through the breach, broken glass crunching underfoot.
One yelled, “Down motherfucker.”
Another, “Don’t move asshole.”
Brian tried to stand. The men swept him and the chair sideways to the ground. A chair leg cracked. Brian fumbled the cigar. A knee dug into his back. A gloved hand pushed his face to floor, pressing the nicked ear and left cheek against the cool terrazzo. A thread of smoke rose from the cigar beneath the coffee table.
“Don’t struggle,” a man said, his breath hot and damp in Brian’s ear. His wrists were jerked behind him and bound with a zip-tie. “You’re going to stand now,” the man said. They rolled Brian onto his back, grabbed his elbows and hoisted him to his feet.
Brian shouted, “What the hell?” He jerked at the zip-tie binding his wrists.
Brian looked over the masks of four in front. Three had brown eyes, one wore dark lensed aviator glasses. He sensed another behind him.
The brown-eyed guy to his left pulled a scrolled paper from a thigh pocket, unrolled it, looked down, up, then held it alongside Brian’s face. “Wrong guy,” he said.
“What the hell is this?” Brian yelled.
“You sure?” asked the voice behind him.
“What the fucking hell is this?”
“Not a match.”
“Jesus, fucking Christ! What the hell is this?”
“Is it the right pic?”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“It’s the one they gave me.”
“Could it still be him? An old pic.”
“Goddamn it. Answer me.”
“Impossible.” He turned the picture to the man behind Brian. “See? Bald, beard, fat, Latin. This guy? No way.”
Two hands gripped Brian’s shoulders and spun him around. The man wore double sterling bars on his collar. His blue eyes, above a black mask, met Brian’s; they shifted side to side, then up and down. “What’s your name?”
“You want my name. What’s your name?”
Someone behind him gripped Brian’s hands and bent them toward his wrists. “My captain just asked you a question.”
“Ow. Shit,” he said. “Brian Newell. My name is Brian Newell.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Can I prove it?”
“Driver’s license.”
“In my wallet.” He gestured, chin to shoulder.
“Check his pockets.”
Hands reached into both Brian’s front pockets. They pulled his car’s fob from the right, iPhone from the left and tossed them onto the coffee table. Hands patted his ass then slipped the wallet from his right rear pocket.
“Got it,” said a voice behind him.
Brian’s wallet made a wet slapping sound when it hit the coffee table. His driver’s license — between a black gloved thumb and index finger — appeared over his shoulder. The captain took it and held it beside Brian’s face. He shrugged and tossed the license to the coffee table. “Cut him loose.”
“Why? Just bag him. Say he’s who-ever-the-fuck. We move to the next name. It helps with the numbers.”
“If the picture was a closer match. But this guy for that guy. No way.”
“Bag him. No one will know… Ever.”
The captain shook his head “Cut him loose.”
Brian felt the zip tie tighten, then pop loose. Hands freed, he brought them up and rubbed his wrists. The men surrounding him turned slow circles checking out the room. ICE in white block letters was written across their backs.
“Nice office,” one said.
“That crown molding don’t come cheap.”
“Check out that flat screen?”
“Guy must be somebody.”
“Yeah, somebody illegal.”
One opened the humidor. “This illegal has great taste in cigars.”
“Take them,” said the captain. “Raul Mendoza’s not coming back.”
“What? You’re here for Raul Mendoza?”
“He’s on the list.”
“He says he’s been here since nineteen ninety-four.”
“He’s on the list.”
“List? What list? Who made the list?”
“What are you, some kind of communist?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“You just did.”
“I did not.”
“You refused.”
“Refusing is my right under the Constitution.”
“Looks like we got another one with that Constitution bullshit.”
“What’s your name?” Brian asked.
“Let me spell it for you,” the captain said. “G-O-F-U-C-K-Y-O-U-R-S-E-L-F.”
