~Creedence Clearwater Revival

The girl took one look at him sitting at Cort’s desk and backed out of the office with a mumbled ‘good morning.’ Paco Benning grinned. The cat was away for fuck knew how long. Maybe the rat would get to play after all.

"Hey, where you going so fast, chica?" he called. "Come back here. Maybe I want you to bring me some coffee."

She’d been working for Cortland Davis, LLC for two years, and in all that time, never once had Paco Benning called her by her name. She doubted he knew it; the only thing he cared about was getting laid. Rachel had to admit that if it had been Mr. Davis making those passes, it would have been a different story. He was hot as hell and she could see herself with him easy, but he’d never once showed any interest beyond her business skills. Paco Benning chased her every chance he got, but he turned her off. Rachel didn’t have time for a flunky, a nobody who was dumb as dirt to boot.

Obviously reluctant, Rachel turned back into the office. Almost sneering, she said pointedly, "I didn’t make coffee. Mr. Davis isn’t here."

His eyes narrowing at the disrespect in her tone, Paco ordered gruffly, "He ain’t here, but I am. Make the goddamn coffee." It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t be in the office long enough to drink much of it. He had to leave for the airport in an hour. But her attitude irritated him. What did she think she had between those legs, a fuckin’ gold mine? Maybe it was time to stop being so nice.

His cell rang, and he shooed her away carelessly as he checked the screen. It showed a California number and Paco answered with a careless, "Yeah?"

A voice rough from cigarettes and booze said, "This Paco Bennelos? Chachi’s little brother?"

Suddenly wary, Paco said, "Who wants to know?"

He heard the man on the other end drag from a cigarette. "Somebody who’s been more of a brother to him than you, asqueroso. At least I give a fuck that he’s dead."

Paco froze. He’d recognized the voice, and a movie trailer of bad memories played in his head. "Shit... Rock? That you man?"

Rocky’s tone was neutral, but his words carried a warning: "So you ain’t forgot your old friends. That’s good. Because we want you to do something for us, hermanito. It’s time we got a little revenge for Chachi."

* * *

Blanche waved goodbye as Cort pulled out of the driveway while Sport whined at her side. He was used to going along every time Cort got in the car, and his body quivered in disappointment. "Hey, I’m still here, buddy," she scolded, bending to lift his nose with her hand. Sport pulled away to stare after the disappearing Avalanche. "Jeez..." Blanche mocked. "You’re supposed to be my dog, remember?"

He didn’t want to come in the house, she had to grab his collar and almost drag him with her. Once inside he padded silently upstairs and Blanche knew he was going to the bedroom, where he’d lie on his blanket, nose on paws and ears perked for every sound until Cort returned.

Sport wasn’t the only one missing the master of the house...the villa seemed strangely deserted without him. To Blanche it seemed like there was no life in the house when he was gone, and it occurred to her that all the money in the world would mean nothing if Cort wasn’t with her. It was a frightening thought, one that she wanted out of her head. ‘I need company,’ Blanche murmured, and her footsteps echoed in the high-ceilinged room as she went in search of Malena.

Cort’s housekeeper was in the fragrant kitchen, elbows deep in yeast scented dough. A pot of something redolent of tomatoes and chilies bubbled on a huge range. Blanche saw strings of peppers and bulbs of garlic hanging from a drying rack with bundles of green herbs. There was a garden outside the kitchen door; she’d seen cilantro growing there, and chives. A lighted wine cooler on the opposite wall was full of green bottles.

In here, in this kitchen, the house took on a welcoming aura again, and Blanche wanted to share in the warmth. But it was Malena’s domain, and she wouldn’t intrude unless asked. Hesitating in the doorway, she waited until the housekeeper looked up and smiled an invitation.

"Come in, Senorita Blanca. You would like more coffee?"

"I would like some company," Blanche admitted. "Mind if I sit and talk a little?"

"Ah, you miss Senor Cort already?" At Blanche’s nod, Malena said, "Come. Sit." With a jerk of her chin she indicated a wooden chair on the opposite side of the deep counter. "I must keep kneading the dough, but I can talk while I work. Are you sure you don’t want coffee? There’s some over there, but you’ll have to get it for yourself."

Another cup of coffee sounded good. "Can I pour one for you?" Blanche asked, and when Malena declined, she filled a single mug and took it back to the counter. She sat, her elbows resting on polished granite, to watch as Cort’s housekeeper sprinkled a handful of flour on the surface and began working it into the dough.

"I like to make bread," she began conversationally. "It’s mindless work, so you can think about other things while you’re kneading. Do you ever make bread, Senorita Blanca?"

Blanche shook her head. "I never do anything in the kitchen, really," she confessed. "Open cans and microwave packages..." She suddenly felt shamefully inadequate in the face of Malena’s almost effortless competence.

Malena smiled, her eyes shy. "Ah, but I am sure you can do things that I cannot. I know nothing but keeping the house and cooking...this is the only way I can earn money, and before we came here, I did not earn much. Tomas and I were lucky that Senor Cort hired us. He pays well, and he is always good to us."

"Well, you and Tomas are good to him, too," Blanche said warmly. She had noticed that Cort had a deep fondness for Malena and her husband. He treated them with an easy familiarity, almost like a favorite aunt and uncle, always respectful and unfailingly polite. "How long have you known him?" She sipped coffee and watched the housekeeper roll and turn the dimpled mass of dough.

Malena stopped a moment as she mentally counted back. Those strong supple hands resumed their motion when she said, "We have been here eight years now. We lived in a little village before, and every day, Tomas and I would go to Rosarito and set up a little outdoor cocina...a kitchen. All day I would cook simple things the touristas could carry away to eat while they visited the mercado...tamales, burritos, enchiladas. It was hot work, all day over a fire. One day Senor Cort came by and tasted my carnitas and frijoles. The next day, he came back and talked to Tomas, asked him some questions. Then he offered us our jobs. And we’ve been here ever since."

She stopped to lift the mass of dough, now a smooth round ball, into a thick earthenware bowl and cover it with a white cloth. "There," she said, setting the bowl to the side. "All done for now, until it grows." She went to the sink to wash her hands and said over her shoulder, "How long have you known Senor Cort?"

"Not very long," Blanche admitted.

"He is a good man," Malena praised as she dried her hands on her apron. "Very kind, very generous. Because of him, Tomas and I need never worry for our old age. When we can’t work anymore, we will be able to return to our village and live out the rest of our days in comfort. Not many in Mexico are so lucky."

She poured herself a cup of coffee and came to sit near Blanche. "You are lucky too, Senorita Blanca." Her black eyes sparkled as she said simply, "He loves you."

Blanche’s cheeks pinked. "You think so?" she asked softly.

Malena shrugged eloquently. "Eh, I know so. I see it in his eyes. Never has he looked at a woman the way he looks at you. Not in eight years.

"Oh yes," she nodded in answer to the question Blanche did not ask. "There have been other women here. Beautiful women, and they wanted him. But he did not want them...not for long. They were here because he desired them. And when he had taken what he wanted, they were not invited back to this place."

"Have there been many?" Blanche asked, hiding a grin in her coffee cup.

"What do you think?" Malena sipped too, and then looked up with a sly grin. "He is not the kind of man to go long without, is he? Fuerte...how you say in English...lusty." She winked at Blanche and said knowingly, "Es muy macho, su amado. Like I said, you are lucky. He will warm your bed for many years."

*

In spite of all the coffee, Blanche felt tired and listless. Exercise...she needed to move. She left Malena and went up to the bedroom with the intention of dragging Sport outside for a run on the beach, but as soon as she walked in the room, her cell rang.

She didn’t even look at the screen, she was so sure of the caller. "Cort?"

There was suppressed laughter in her sister’s voice. "Nope. It’s me. Disappointed?"

"Mo! I’m so glad you called." Blanche sat on the bed and looked out of the French doors toward the Pacific, where foaming rollers broke on a white beach. "Hey, wait till you see this place, hon...it’s gorgeous. Only two more days and you’ll be here. I can’t wait."

Maureen chuckled. "Well, actually, it’s like two more hours, B. I’m on my way...we finished up early and I thought, ‘Why not spend these two days in sunny Mexico instead of cold, foggy Philadelphia? Brrr... The airline said I could transfer the ticket to fly today, so here I am on a layover in Dallas. I called to see if you guys can pick me up at the airport. My flight’s supposed to get in at 2:50 your time."

"Today? No kidding! Ah Mo, that’s great." Blanche laughed out loud. "And you must have ESP or something; Cort left an hour and a half ago for San Diego. He had a business meeting. I’ll call him. He can swing by and get you, no trouble at all."

"You sure he won’t mind, B? I mean, I know this was supposed to be your time together...I guess it was presumptuous to just get on a plane and barge in on you two," Maureen apologized.

"No, no!" Blanche assured her. "This is great, Mo, really. I can’t wait to see you. And Cort will be glad too, you’ll see."

"He really won’t mind? He’s that good, B?"

Blanche smiled, and unconsciously ran her hand over his pillow, as if touching something Cort had touched could bring him to her. "Yeah, Mo. He’s that good. I’m a lucky girl."

*

He looked at his hands and they were steady, but he felt like he was shaking inside. The shot of Jack Daniels he’d dumped into his coffee hadn’t done a thing to calm his jitters. Before the phone call from Rocky Chavez, it would never have occurred to Paco to open his boss’s confidential stuff. Especially something so important Cort Davis had ordered his assistant to fly it down to him personally. But it was something to do with her, and he’d sworn to Rocky that he’d help him find Blanche Donovan.

Paco didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to be involved with the Mongols and their murder and drugs. He’d left that life behind years ago, resigned from the club and moved to Vegas to make a new start, away from men who killed other men for nothing. Counted himself damn lucky to hook up with Cort Davis when he did. Paco knew he didn’t have much to offer a man like Cort. He wasn’t smart, he wasn’t even all that useful. All he had was to give was his loyalty. He’d always been loyal, and now look at him. Screwing over the man who’d taken him under his wing, and for who? A pajero he feared and despised.

"Fucking Rocky..." Paco muttered. He examined the red tape sealing the envelope he’d picked up that morning from Mark Spelling. He turned it over, looked for a way to get the damn thing open without destroying it. No fuckin’ way, no fuckin’ how. Whoever sealed it had gone overboard with the goddamn tape, and Paco knew why. He paid attention to the placement of each strip, and then sweating, swearing under his breath, he pulled a pair of scissors from the drawer and sliced off a corner. He used the switchblade he always carried to slit the envelope open across the top.

It contained only three typed pages. Not the best reader, Paco scanned them slowly. One line jumped out at him, caught him breathless, like a slap in the face: The dealer who went down in the raid was a Mongol named Cesar Bennelos, AKA Chachi Benning.

"Fuck, oh fuck...."

He read the report, his eyes following his finger as it traced the words. When he finished, he threw the papers down on the desk. So Blanche Donovan was a cop. She was there on the raid when his brother got whacked, and she’d heisted the jack right out from under everybody’s nose. Mongol drug money...the profit from three of their meth labs. Over half a mill in cash. Fuck, no wonder the club wanted revenge. Rocky was shitting him, it wasn’t payback for Chachi, it was the bread.

"Half a fuckin’ million..." Paco muttered out loud, thinking what he could do with that kind of jack. And Cort Davis’s woman had it.

"Jesus H. Christ."

Maybe it wasn’t so wrong to give the chick up to the gang. Fuck, she was a bent cop...no better than they were. And so what if she was hooked up with his boss? He wouldn’t keep her around long, he never kept any woman around. Hell, maybe he was already done with her, Paco hadn’t seen them together in over three weeks.

Well, first things first. There was no way he wanted the name ‘Benning’ in those documents. The rest didn’t matter, he’d never mentioned a brother, never admitted his connection to the Mongols. But to have his name written right there in the report...Davis would be on that like flies on shit. That was trouble he didn’t need. It had to go.

Paco looked down at the crisp white papers and opened the top drawer of Cort’s desk. What he wanted wasn’t there, and he searched through the entire desk, every drawer, more frustrated by the minute. A quick glance at the clock showed him he had to leave for the airport in ten minutes and he pressed the intercom to order the girl...whatever the fuck her name was...into the office.

"Do you need something again, Mr. Benning?"

There it was, the trace of insolence in her voice that always set his teeth on edge. ‘Just you wait, you stuck up bitch,’ Paco silently promised. ‘I’m gonna fuckin’ nail you if it’s the last thing I do...’

"Yeah," he said aloud. "Bring me some of that stuff that covers mistakes in a letter, and a big brown envelope..." he eyed the destroyed manila, "...about ten by twelve size. And turn the copier on."

"All right. I’ll be a minute, I’m just finishing...."

"Hurry it up," Paco barked, and disconnected. "Yeah, just you fucking wait, Miss Golden Cunt," he growled, looking at the console as if it were Rachel. "One of these days I’ll screw you right in that tight little ass. We’ll see who’s sorry she was such a bitch then."

He shoved everything out of sight in the drawer and waited for her, his knee bouncing nervously until she came in. She held a small white bottle and the envelope, handed them over.

"Do you want me to do something for you, Mr. Benning?" she asked, glancing pointedly at the cleared desktop.

He didn’t even look at her. "I want you to get the fuck out. And close the door."

‘Bastard...’ Rachel turned on her heel and stalked out of the office.

As soon as the door snicked closed behind her, Paco took the papers out of the drawer. Carefully, he looked at the label and unscrewed the cap off the bottle. "Light strokes, one direction..." he said to himself as he brushed Wite Out over his brother’s name, his name, until the Benning disappeared. Squinting, he examined his handiwork. There was no period after Chachi, but it wasn’t that noticeable. Maybe Davis wouldn’t pick up on it. He took the corrected sheet out to the Xerox, made a clean copy. He felt the girl’s eyes on him as he returned to Cort’s office, lasering into his back.

At the desk he reorganized the scattered pages. They were numbered 1, 2, 3, and he put them in order and slid them into envelope. He took the original page and ran it through the shredder, folded the opened envelope and stuck it inside his jacket. He had to hurry...a quick stop at a hardware store to buy a roll of red tape, and then he’d have to hightail it to the airport.

*

There was a long line of cars waiting at the border when Cort got to Tijuana. He turned off the CD to listen to a mariachi band playing under a canopy near the incoming crossing, wondered why the musicians weren’t choking on all the fucking exhaust fumes. He eyed them with a half-smile...fancy silver embroidered chapaderos, those huge black sombreros with MEXICO done up in sequins. They looked like real Mexicans about as much as he did.

His phone chirped and a quick glance at the screen told him it was Blanche. He answered with a drawling, "Hey darlin’...miss me already?"

At the sound of his voice, Blanche grinned. That drawl did something to her...made her think of Cort deep inside her, whispering low in her ear. Purring, Blanche said, "I miss you bad, honey." She glanced at Sport, still lying on his blanket in the corner. "But the dog misses you worse. He’s been in a blue funk since you left."

"Yeah? Maybe I’ll bring something home for him. One of those rawhide bones. Might keep him off the damn seagulls." The Taurus ahead of him inched forward a few feet and Cort eased off the brake and drifted toward the Ford’s bumper. "So what’s up, Angel? Anything wrong?"

"Nothing’s wrong, honey. I have an errand for you, that’s all."

"An errand, huh?" hedged Cort, immediately suspicious. He’d be damned if he’d buy her tampons. "What kind of errand?"

"Pick up something for me?" Blanche purred.

"Now, Angel..." he began. "Tomas will take you into town if you need..."

"What I need isn’t in town," Blanche broke in. "It’s flying into San Diego this afternoon." Suddenly she laughed. "You thought I needed tampons, didn’t you?"

Cort ran a hand over his chin and confessed, "Well...yeah."

"Jeez, men. Like I’d ask you to do that."

"Hey, I didn’t know," he protested. "A man never knows what women are thinking when they start that ‘I need you to do something for me’ stuff. So, the airport? Your sister’s coming in early?"

"How’d you guess?"

"Hell, Angel. Wasn’t hard," he said, proving he did know what his woman was thinking. "I reckon that’s the only thing could make you sound so happy. What time’s her flight, which airline?"

"US Airways, arriving at 2:50. Wasn’t that nice of her to surprise us on a day you were already going to SD?"

Cort thought, ‘Yeah, real nice of her. Shitfire...there goes my last two days alone with you,’ but if having Maureen around made Blanche that happy, he was willing. He said laconically, "Sure darlin’. Great timing," and inched the Avalanche a few feet forward. "So how am I gonna know who she is? She look like you?"

"Mmm, a little. We’re the same height, about the same size. She’s got brown hair though, and her eyes are kind of smoky green. She’s prettier than I am."

"I doubt that."

"And she said she’s wearing jeans and a white shirt."

"Oh good. That’ll make her stand out in a crowd," Cort mocked.

"Well, her luggage is red. That might help."

"Uh huh."

"And she said she’d hang a sign around her neck if you wanted her to...Sister Mo." Blanche giggled at the thought. "I gave her your cell number. She’ll call and tell you exactly where she is so you can find her."

There was a break in the line as the officers flagged two cars over into the customs lane. Cort pulled up, next in line. "Good enough, darlin’. Listen, I’m at the border, I gotta go. Don’t worry, if your sister looks anything like you, I’ll spot her in a Tennessee minute. I got radar for long tall women with nice tits and a fine ass."

"You do, huh? What a shock, I didn’t know."

Cort grinned. "I’ll bring her home safe to you, Angel. Now you be a good girl till we get there."

"No worries here. You be a good boy...no hitting on the sister, smooth talker," Blanche warned.

"Not on your life, darlin’. I only have eyes for you," Cort said. A horn sounded and Cort said, "Gotta go, sweetheart...I’m next. Keep it hot for me, hear?"

"It’s on simmer. Hurry home, Cort. And be careful." She clicked off.

There was another delay, the guards had the trunk open on the car in front of him. With one eye on the guards, he pulled up his messages. Two calls from Spelling’s office, another from JTC. Shit, he’d have to call JTC before he lost the deal, but not now. The guards slammed the trunk lid down on the Taurus and waved it through. Cort tossed his phone down on the seat and pulled into the slot. He rolled down the window and reached inside his breast pocket.

"How’s it going, officer?" He smiled, and held out his passport.