Page 18 of Steel Trap
“You offed that pig cold.” Camacho’s voice sounded next to him.
“I’d have preferred to play with him some.” Hatchet cracked his knuckles. “But the only good Fed is one feeding the worms. Know what I mean? Thatbastard cost me.”
“You’ll get a sweet deal with us.”
“You get the raw product across the border then refine it. We have the distribution channels. It’s a win-win situation.”
“If you’ve got the cash.”
Hatchet didn’t bother to answer. The time for negotiation was later and he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He wanted the job done so he could get back to Smith.
The car journey was mercifullyshort and as the vehicle came to a halt Hatchet’s blindfold was removed. He glanced out of the car window, but could make out little more than a dark alley behind a low-rise building. When he got out of the vehicle, the heat of the night hit him along with a vague odor of garbage. The faint strains of music and the low hum of people talking and laughing could just be heard.
“This way.” Camachostepped behind a dumpster. A few steps led down to a padlocked door scrawled with graffiti. A key Camacho extracted from his pocket fit the lock. There was a rasping noise as a length of chain slipped through a D ring, then Camacho yanked the door open. Hatchet wondered why it had been locked from the outside.
“Your people a security risk?”
“Cheap labor doesn’t come with many guarantees,” Camachoreplied.
He led the way down the steps, passing one door on the first level, which Hatchet assumed gave access to the parking garage. The rest of the stairwell was dimly lit and reeked of piss and vomit. Hatchet tried not to breathe. It was a relief when Camacho unbolted the door at the bottom of the stairs. Hatchet found himself in a windowless basement. The large room had a concrete floorand little ventilation. Several people, young men and women, worked at various tables. Pans bubbled on gas hotplates and there were plastic barrels lining the edge of the space. Hatchet noted stacks of bagged powder and piles of crystalline rocks waiting to be packaged. None of the workers made eye contact but Hatchet noted bruises and hollow eyes.
“Illegals?”
“What do you care?” Camacho rippedopen a bag of powder. “Top quality. Taste it.”
Hatchet wetted a fingertip before dipping it in the powder. He let a few white granules dissolve on his tongue. “Good stuff.” He nodded. “We can shift powder or rocks. Rocks make better money but distribution is slower. Crack’s more addictive so there’s better repeat business.”
“We get two deliveries a week and operate down here twenty-four-seven,”Camacho said.
“Risky.”
“The building owner gets a cut. He’s family. This is a good neighborhood. Cops don’t come sniffing round here.”
“Clever.” Hatchet pretended to examine the equipment. “Okay. I like what I’m seeing. If the price is right, we’re in.”
“Payment up front?” Camacho said, the gleam of greed in his dark eyes.
“Of course. But after we prove our distribution, I expect credit arrangementsand a reduction in price.”
“If this works out, I’m sure we can make a deal that suits us all.” Camacho walked across to another door which led to a small office. He took a bottle and two glasses from a desk drawer. “Tequila. To seal the deal.” He poured two generous measures. Hatchet clinked glasses. He knocked his back in one swallow.
“So let’s talk timing…” The jangling bell of a fire alarmsounded, deafening in the small space. “What the fuck?”
“No doubt a false alarm.” Camacho’s eyes darted around. He gestured to one of his compatriots. “Go find out what the fuck’s happening.”
Hatchet schooled his features into studied disinterest. He turned down the offer of a second drink and instead wandered out to the production lines. If there was a genuine fire the workers had no way outwhen the outer doors were padlocked. Anger burned in his gut.Camacho and his goons need to take a short walk off a fucking high cliff.
Camacho’s man came thundering down the steps. “There’s something going down. Smoke everywhere. People on the street at the front of the building. We need to blow this joint.”
Hatchet turned to Camacho. “This ain’t a great start to our relationship. I’m outtahere.”
“I’ll have the car take you wherever you want to go. We’ll resume our conversation soon.”
Hatchet made for the stairs, following Camacho and his two men. When they reached the alley, Camacho slipped the padlocked chain on the door.
“What about the labor if there’s a fire?” Hatchet asked. Camacho shrugged.
“Expendable. They know too much.”
