Stone Barrington 06-11

thousand dollars to meet with you.”
    “For as long as I want?”
    “How long do you want?”
    “Maybe an hour, maybe more.”
    “He’ll do that, and Stone?”
    “Yes?”
    “Don’t forget the rest of my money, too.”
    “See you at three o’clock.”

Thirty-five

    S TONE TOOK THE FREEWAY TO SAN DIEGO AND MADE IT in three and a half hours. He had some lunch at a taco joint near the border, then put the money and his little dictating recorder into his pockets, put on the red baseball cap he’d bought at the Centurion Studios shop, parked the car, and walked to the border crossing. He was questioned by a uniformed officer.
    “What’s the purpose of your visit to Mexico?” the man asked.
    “A business meeting.”
    “What kind of business?”
    “I’m a lawyer,” Stone replied. “I’m interviewing a witness.”
    “Let’s see some ID.”
    Stone showed his U.S. passport.
    “Are you carrying more than five thousand dollars in cash or negotiable instruments?”
    Stone was not about to lie about this. “Yes.”
    “How much?”
    “About seven thousand.”
    The man handed him a declaration. “What’s the money for?”
    “I have to pay the man who located the witness for me.”
    “Fill out the form.”
    Stone did as he was told, handed it over, and was waved across the border.
    “You better be careful, carrying that much money,” the officer said.
    “Thanks, I will.” Stone walked slowly down the busy street, waiting for somebody to recognize him. He saw no one, and no one seemed to take note of him. He had never been to Mexico before, and he was nervous. Everything he had read about the place in the newspapers had led him to believe that the country was a vast criminal enterprise, with drug dealers and kidnappers on every corner and a corrupt police force. So far, he didn’t like it.
    A block from the border, he sat down at one of two tables outside a little restaurant. A waiter appeared. “Cerveza,” Stone said, exhausting his Spanish. A moment later, he was drinking an icy Carta Blanca, the only thing he intended to allow past his lips on this trip. He had finished the beer and was wondering if he had come on a fool’s errand when a small boy dressed in ragged jeans and sneakers ran up to him.
    “Señor Stone?” the boy asked.
    Stone nodded.
    The boy beckoned him to come.
    Stone left five dollars on the table and followed the boy. They turned a corner and came to a Lincoln Continental of a fifties vintage, a giant, four-door land yacht of an automobile. Brandy Garcia sat at the wheel and beckoned him to the passenger side.
    “Give the boy something,” Garcia said.
    Stone gave the boy five dollars and stuck the red baseball cap on his head.
    The boy turned the cap backward, grinned, and disappeared into the street crowd.
    Stone got into the car and waited for Garcia to drive off, but he simply sat there. “Well?”
    “I want the rest of my money, first,” Garcia said.
    Stone took a precounted thousand dollars from a pocket and handed it over. “The rest when I’m sitting down with Cordova.”
    “Fair enough,” Brandy said, and put the car into gear. “Pretty nice buggy, eh?”
    “Nicely restored,” Stone admitted. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
    Garcia turned a corner and sped down the street, oblivious of the pedestrians diving out of his way. “I got three more beauties at my house,” he said. “I got a Stingray Corvette, a ’57 Chevy Bel-Air coupe with the big V-8, and a ’52 Caddy convertible, yellow. All mint.”
    “Well,” Stone said, “I guess the Lincoln is the closest thing we’re going to get to inconspicuous.”
    Garcia laughed and turned another corner. “Everybody knows me in Tijuana,” he said. “Why be inconspicuous?”
    Soon they were leaving the busy part of town and driving down a dirt street. The houses were getting farther apart, and after a while there were very few houses. Garcia slowed and turned down a dirt road; a mile later, he turned into a driveway and drove a hundred yards to a little stucco house in a grove of trees, with an oversized garage to one side.
    “Here we are,” Garcia said, parking next to a beat-up Volkswagen and getting out of the car. “Cordova is already here; that’s his car,” he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the VW. Stone quickly memorized the license plate number before he followed Garcia into the house.
    “How’s Cordova’s English?” Stone asked, as they walked through a tiled