Ex-Kop by Warren Hammond

sandwich, typical hotel fare.
    “He's waiting for somebody.”
    I nodded. At Ian's table were two place settings besides his own.
    From the vantage of Ian's scalp, we could see most of the restaurant. He'd left Liz's place shortly after the fashion show, saying he had some business to attend to. He told her he'd see her later at Roby's.
    I was starting to feel sleepy. I wondered if Maggie would mind if I took a nap. It could be hours, maybe days before we caught him doing anything, but then I decided I might as well try sticking it out until I saw who his dinner mates would be.
    Ian ordered a drink and flipped through the menu. The restaurant was one of those touristy places on the Old Town Square. Its walls were covered with hand-painted jungle scenes that featured masses of thick greenery with lizards on every perch, each of them lit by magical beams of sunlight that twinkled through holes in the jungle canopy. It was the kind of thing that Lagartans would call classy, but offworlders would probably find tacky. Lagartans were always missing the mark when they tried to attract tourists.
    The vodka arrived, and I watched as Ian brought the glass up to his lips. My mouth watered, but I resisted the urge to pull out my flask. I didn't want Maggie thinking poorly of me. Ian set an empty glass back on the table.
    The view from the Ian-cam swung to the door, and in came a heavier-than-average man who waved at Ian. The guy looked familiar despite the fact that he had a painful-looking double shiner marring his face. I was already wracking my brain, trying to remember who he was as he took a seat across from Ian. “How's it going, Ian?”
    Ian said, “Not bad, boy-o. How's your fucking face?”
    The man shrugged and aimed his black eyes at the floor. The guy looked like shit, and it wasn't just the black eyes. It was the rumpled clothes, the dumpy body, the nervous face.
    “Don't be a pussy,” said Ian. “It'll heal.”
    “I know,” he said. “But you didn't have to hit me that hard.”
    Holy shit.
Did I hear that right? Ian was the one who gave him the coon face? Recognition overwhelmed me, the pear shaped bod, that same crappy shirt. What the fuck was going on?
    Ian said, “Christ, Yuri. I was just trying to make it look believable. It's your own damn fault. If you hadn't been so fucking sloppy, I wouldn't have had to lay you out like that.”
    “I know, I know. It was my fault,” Yuri responded, spineless.
    “Are you going to order a drink or what?”
    “Yeah.” Yuri held up a meaty hand. When the waiter showed, Yuri looked at Ian's empty glass and asked him, “What are you drinking?”
    “Christ, just order whatever you want. What does it matter what I'm drinking?”
    “I just thought that whatever you were having might sound good to me.”
    “It's not like we're fucking lovers who have to drink the same thing. Just order.”
    The waiter stood by with raised brows.
    “B—brandy,” Yuri said in a weak voice.
    Ian looked at the waiter and said, “I'll have another.” When the waiter moved off, the cam squared on Yuri and stayed thereuntil Yuri made eye contact. Then the cam's view moved from side to side as Ian shook his head at him. Yuri wilted and stared at the floor again.
    I tried, but couldn't make sense of why Ian was having dinner with the cameraman, the one from the Libre, the one Ian and his boys had roughed up on the pier. Ian had just told him he had to make it look good. He said Yuri hadn't done his job right. What job? The three little circles on the cabin floor, made by a tripod. The scope of the Juarez case exploded in my mind.
    “Where's Horst?” asked Ian.
    “I don't know,” said Yuri. “He said he'd be here.”
    “You didn't tell him we were meeting at the bar in the basement did you?”
    “No. I told him we were meeting at the restaurant, just like you said.”
    “Go check the bar.”
    “He's not going to the bar, Ian. Horst knows we're meeting here.”
    “Don't make me say it