Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Cellar
The cellar beneath El Puente Bar had stone walls three feet thick, built during the prohibition era to stash illegal liquor. Now, it served a far more grim purpose.
Water dripped steadily from an overhead copper pipe, tapping rhythmically against the concrete floor. The only light came from a single bare bulb dangling on a frayed yellow cord.
In the center of the room, stripped to his undershirt and tied securely to a rusted steel chair, was the man in the gray shirt. His four associates knelt against the damp stone wall, their hands bound behind their backs with industrial zip-ties, guarded by two armed men in dark suits.
The heavy iron door swung open, screeching on its hinges.
Virgilio walked in, followed by Mateo. Virgilio had removed his suit jacket, rolling up the cuffs of his pristine white dress shirt. He pulled a wooden chair from the corner, set it three feet in front of the bound leader, and sat down.
The thug looked up through swollen, blackened eyes. Blood had caked across his lips, and his broken nose had shifted grotesque degrees to the left.
"Please, man," the thug rasped, his voice whistling through missing front teeth. "We didn't know who she was. We swear to God, we didn't know she was Marcelo's girl."
"She isn't my girl," Virgilio said calmly, resting his elbows on his knees. "She is an employee of El Puente. And that makes her mine to protect. Who gave you the contract?"
"Some guy named Ortiz," the man wept. "Met him at a diner off Route 9. He showed us her picture. Said she was a border runaway who skipped out on a heavy marker. Gave us two grand upfront, promised three more when we put her in the back of an unmarked blue Ford Econoline parked three blocks away."
Virgilio glanced up at Mateo. "Is the van still there?"
"We picked it up ten minutes ago," Mateo answered. "Two border coyotes inside. We have them detained in the secondary warehouse down by the docks."
Virgilio turned back to the man in the chair. "What was your instruction regarding her condition?"
The thug swallowed hard, a flicker of panic darting across his bruised face. "Just... just rough her up. Break her resistance so she wouldn't scream during the transport. Ortiz said... he said Morales wanted her delivered alive, but broken."
Virgilio’s expression did not change. His face was a mask of cold marble.
"You took your phone out," Virgilio noted quietly. "Why?"
"I... I was gonna send Ortiz proof that we had her secured!"
"You were laughing," Virgilio countered. "My bartender saw you. My customers saw you. You threw a ninety-pound girl onto a solid wood table. You cracked her ribs. You mocked her heritage. You found joy in her terror."
"I was drunk! Boss, please, I have kids—"
"Then you should have thought of them before you decided to prey on someone else's child," Virgilio whispered.
Virgilio stood up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean white silk handkerchief, using it to wipe a speck of dust from his sleeve.
"Mateo."
"Yes, Don Virgilio?"
"Cut their right thumbs off," Virgilio ordered without an ounce of tremor in his voice. "All five of them. So they never hold a phone to record another soul’s misery. Then drive them fifty miles out into the desert, strip their shoes, and dump them on the highway. If they survive the walk, let them carry the message back south."
The cellar exploded in hysterical shrieks and pleading. The leader began to violently thrash in the chair, sobbing uncontrollably. "No! Please! Marcelo, please! Have mercy!"
Virgilio turned toward the exit. At the doorway, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"Tell Hector Morales," Virgilio said over the screaming, "that Clara Reyes's debt has been purchased by the Marcelo family. And if he sends one more mongrel across my border, I will take the payment out of his chest."
May you like
Virgilio stepped out into the corridor and closed the steel door behind him.
***