Head Games (The Hector Lassiter Series) by Craig McDonald Page B
Authors: Craig McDonald
Tags: Novel
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said. "So we'll need to get the information from Holmdahl about making the writing appear to have any shot at how to get at Villa's gold. It's looking like a four-way split."
"Fuck that," I said. "This thing was probably prepared on the fly, down there south of the border. They would've used whatever was at hand and that couldn't have been too fancy. So I'm betting the ink they used would've been milk, lemon juice ... maybe vinegar, or most probably, their own urine."
Alicia wrinkled her nose and muttered "Yuck."
"In any of those cases," I continued, "heat will bring the writing up. We got any candles around this joint?"
Bud found a pair in the cabinet over the range. The last inhabitant of our bungalow must have been some Klansmen or Amos and Andy fan who liked romancing fellow racists --- the candles were attached to some wicked candleholders. The wax sticks of the candles were gripped in the exaggerated lips of these little ceramic-minstrel faces.
I lit one candle with my Zippo, sat the repugnant Step-and-Fetch holder on the table, and picked up the scrap of paper with the tweezers. I nodded at the notepad and said to Bud, "Get a pencil and be ready to get this down. It's old and the writing may be very faint ... it may also evaporate very fast. Could be one-shot-only stuff."
I held the scrap of paper over the candle, about three inches off the tip of the flame. The paper flared and exploded with a soft whoosh!
"Son of a whore," I bellowed. I slammed my other hand down on the table and upset the candle. The barest corner of paper was gripped in the tweezers now --- the rest gone to hell.
Bud was shaking his head. Alicia said, "Guess that's that, yes?" She almost looked pleased; or maybe "relieved" was the better word to describe her expression.
"Guess so," I said. "So far as the treasure goes. On the other hand, the son of a bitch might have had something we can't even imagine written down on there."
Bud sat back, disconsolate. "We're fucked. I had been thinking about a hacienda somewhere on the coast of Baja."
"We're not necessarily through yet," I said, hiding my own disappointment. "This map stuff was apart from Prescott and the Skull and Bones. Remember --- we've still got a good shot at securing our eighty-grand for turning Pancho's noggin here over to those assholes at Yale."
"True," Bud said.
Alicia sat down next to me and smiled uncertainly. "So we can skip this meeting with Holmdahl, yes?"
"Oh, God no," I said. "I don't think we should 'skip' that --- not at all. There are some things to maybe learn there. And I haven't completely written off a treasure hunt. And I think that bastard Emil would like to know --- should know --- that Fierro is alive and in town. Part of me, maybe mostly the writer in me, would like to kick back and watch that knowledge put to some bloody end by Holmdahl. And hell, the ex-Cavalry part of me feels an obligation to maybe even throw in with Emil to take down Fierro. Maybe fulfill one of our old missions from the Expedition."
"You're loco," Alicia said. "Let those two old men kill one another if you will, but you stand back from it now. We mail this head off to your senator friend, get our money, and go back to our lives. That's my vote. Meet Holmdahl if you will, yes --- just to point him at Fierro. But then end this before it truly harms one of us, Héctor. I mean, harms us beyond aching ribs, bleeding kidneys, black eyes and broken knuckles. Look at the two of you. What will Señor Holmdahl think when he gets a look at both of you with your limps and slow and careful ways of sitting down ... with your swollen, barked knuckles and bruised faces and throats and your split lips?"
I looked at Bud and raised my eyebrows. It was long-pants time, now. The poet searched my eyes a minute and then nodded decisively. "The lady is right. Let's see Holmdahl, then make the contact with the senator and wrap this mess up."
Truth be told, I was inclined their way --- but I feigned
"Fuck that," I said. "This thing was probably prepared on the fly, down there south of the border. They would've used whatever was at hand and that couldn't have been too fancy. So I'm betting the ink they used would've been milk, lemon juice ... maybe vinegar, or most probably, their own urine."
Alicia wrinkled her nose and muttered "Yuck."
"In any of those cases," I continued, "heat will bring the writing up. We got any candles around this joint?"
Bud found a pair in the cabinet over the range. The last inhabitant of our bungalow must have been some Klansmen or Amos and Andy fan who liked romancing fellow racists --- the candles were attached to some wicked candleholders. The wax sticks of the candles were gripped in the exaggerated lips of these little ceramic-minstrel faces.
I lit one candle with my Zippo, sat the repugnant Step-and-Fetch holder on the table, and picked up the scrap of paper with the tweezers. I nodded at the notepad and said to Bud, "Get a pencil and be ready to get this down. It's old and the writing may be very faint ... it may also evaporate very fast. Could be one-shot-only stuff."
I held the scrap of paper over the candle, about three inches off the tip of the flame. The paper flared and exploded with a soft whoosh!
"Son of a whore," I bellowed. I slammed my other hand down on the table and upset the candle. The barest corner of paper was gripped in the tweezers now --- the rest gone to hell.
Bud was shaking his head. Alicia said, "Guess that's that, yes?" She almost looked pleased; or maybe "relieved" was the better word to describe her expression.
"Guess so," I said. "So far as the treasure goes. On the other hand, the son of a bitch might have had something we can't even imagine written down on there."
Bud sat back, disconsolate. "We're fucked. I had been thinking about a hacienda somewhere on the coast of Baja."
"We're not necessarily through yet," I said, hiding my own disappointment. "This map stuff was apart from Prescott and the Skull and Bones. Remember --- we've still got a good shot at securing our eighty-grand for turning Pancho's noggin here over to those assholes at Yale."
"True," Bud said.
Alicia sat down next to me and smiled uncertainly. "So we can skip this meeting with Holmdahl, yes?"
"Oh, God no," I said. "I don't think we should 'skip' that --- not at all. There are some things to maybe learn there. And I haven't completely written off a treasure hunt. And I think that bastard Emil would like to know --- should know --- that Fierro is alive and in town. Part of me, maybe mostly the writer in me, would like to kick back and watch that knowledge put to some bloody end by Holmdahl. And hell, the ex-Cavalry part of me feels an obligation to maybe even throw in with Emil to take down Fierro. Maybe fulfill one of our old missions from the Expedition."
"You're loco," Alicia said. "Let those two old men kill one another if you will, but you stand back from it now. We mail this head off to your senator friend, get our money, and go back to our lives. That's my vote. Meet Holmdahl if you will, yes --- just to point him at Fierro. But then end this before it truly harms one of us, Héctor. I mean, harms us beyond aching ribs, bleeding kidneys, black eyes and broken knuckles. Look at the two of you. What will Señor Holmdahl think when he gets a look at both of you with your limps and slow and careful ways of sitting down ... with your swollen, barked knuckles and bruised faces and throats and your split lips?"
I looked at Bud and raised my eyebrows. It was long-pants time, now. The poet searched my eyes a minute and then nodded decisively. "The lady is right. Let's see Holmdahl, then make the contact with the senator and wrap this mess up."
Truth be told, I was inclined their way --- but I feigned
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