I turn to Trujillo, my heart hammering, and a sick, queasy feeling rising in my stomach. He's staring at me, his eyes darker and harder than I've ever seen them before. Jaw clenched, body tense, fists balled at his sides, I can see Trujillo trying to physically control and restrain himself.
I should have known better. I feel myself grimacing. Trujillo is not a man who likes explanations and justifications. He expects results. Action. Those are the only things he respects.
“I don't want excuses, Michael,” he says, his voice as cold as his eyes. “I want my money.”
“I understand, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “And I'm –”
He holds his hand up and I fall silent. The look of patience on his face is forced and I can tell, is taking a Herculean effort on his part.
“Michael, I want to make sure you understand the seriousness of your situation,” he says.
“I do, Mr. Trujillo,” I say.
The greasy, nauseous feeling rises even higher within me and I'm half-afraid I'm going to throw up on his thousand-dollar shoes.
“Are you certain of that?” Trujillo asks.
I nod. “Yes, I'm sure.”
He looks at me for a long moment, a look of skepticism on his face, which makes my stomach churn even more. Yeah, if this little meeting doesn't end soon, I'm going to puke all over the place right in front of him.
“I'm not certain you are, Michael,” he says. “I think I need to do a better job of making you understand the gravity of the situation you're in.”
Images of severed limbs, decapitated and eviscerated bodies fill my mind – all courtesy of the photos of his handiwork Trujillo has shown me. As I imagine myself winding up like those poor assholes, my stomach roils, my balls are tighter than ever before, and I'm closer to vomiting than I've been in years.
Trujillo signals to his driver and the large Mexican man opens the back door of the SUV again. He reaches in and I hear someone sobbing. The driver drags a man out of the back – he had obviously been “worked over” by the cartel already. The driver pushes the man down to his knees in front of Trujillo and puts his large hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.
The man on his knees is sobbing and Trujillo looks down at him, a look of absolute disgust on his face. The man's face is a bruised, bloody mess. His eyes are swollen closed, his lips are split, and when he opens his mouth to breathe – no doubt, because he can't breathe through the mess that was once his nose – I can see that he's missing a number of teeth. It's going to take weeks, if not months, for this poor schmuck to heal. Who knows if he'll ever breathe correctly again.
If Trujillo wanted to make an impression on me, he did. In spades.
“I get it, Mr. Trujillo,” I say quickly. “I understand the seriousness of the situation and believe me when I say –”
“This man,” Trujillo says, cutting me off as if I hadn't been speaking, “owes me ten thousand dollars. Substantially less than you, yes?”
I nod slowly, the queasiness in my belly growing worse by the second. Trujillo looks at me intently, letting me know the question is not rhetorical and he's expecting an answer.
I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Substantially.”
Trujillo nods. “This man was one of my distributors. A nephew of mine, actually,” he says. “Moved a lot of product for me and always did a good job. But, he got careless. Sloppy. Got some product stolen.”
The fact that Trujillo is willing to do this to somebody in his family doesn't bode well for me. I can only imagine what he'll do to me if I let him down.
“This man thought that because he's my sister's kid, he can do whatever he wants without consequence,” Trujillo says.
The man on his knees shakes his head, speaking as quickly as he can through his busted-up mouth. His voice is thick and he's speaking in Spanish, meaning I don't understand a damn word of what he's saying. But, I don't need to be fluent in the language to know that he's begging and pleading for his life.
“But, there are always consequences to our actions,” Trujillo continues. “Don't you agree, Michael?”
I open my mouth to speak but find that my throat is dry and my tongue so thick, I can't form words at all. Instead, all I do is nod. Trujillo smirks, obviously understanding that I'm doing my best to project an image of confidence that I don't truly feel. Truth is, I'm downright fucking terrified right now.
“A man should always be true to his word,” Trujillo says. “After all, if our word, as men, means nothing, what else do we have?”
I shake my head, not understanding what he means. Although, the irony of a man like Trujillo speaking about being true to his word –a drug and gun dealing murderer – is not lost on me. Though, he doesn't seem to see it.
“When a man gives me his word,” Trujillo says, “I expect him to hold true to that word. To be honorable. To do what he says what he'll do.”
Trujillo looks to me, obviously expecting an answer from me again. Still unable to speak, I nod again vigorously. A predatory smile crosses his face and I watch as his eyes seem to grow even blacker – something I didn't think was possible.
“I'm glad you agree, Michael,” he says. “This man does not know the meaning of honor. Does not believe in being true to his word.”
The man on his knees is shaking his head, his voice growing louder as he begs and pleads. Trujillo looks at him, the disgust on his face and the coldness in his eyes growing with each passing moment.
“I am giving you this demonstration to remind you of your obligations,” Trujillo says.
I nod and like a rusted gate finally breaking open, my voice erupts from my throat. “I understand, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “And, don't worry, I'm a man of my word. I will get you the money I owe you. I swear it.”
Trujillo looks at me for a long moment, as if he has some sort of lie detector in his head that's weighing and judging the truthfulness of my words. Finally, he gives me a small nod.
“I'm so glad to hear that, Michael,” he says. “I like a man who puts value on his word. I respect that.”
I nod, hoping this meeting is over. I need a goddamn drink. Or twelve. Trujillo nods to his driver and I stare in stupefied horror as the large man pulls a chrome plated pistol out of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and I find myself noticing the stupidest things – the way the moonlight glints off the cold steel of the gun barrel, the smell of the man pissing himself, and the dark pool of liquid spreading out beneath him.
Standing rooted to the spot, terror sending electrical jolts through my veins, I watch as the big man puts the barrel of the gun against the kneeling man's head. I see the bright flash of the gun, hear the muffled sound of the shot, and then feel the warm, sticky spray of the man's brain and blood splash across my face. I watch as the man falls over onto his side, limp, blood pouring out of the large, ragged exit wound on the side of his head.
His body hits the gravel with a wet, meaty thud, his eyes wide, sightless, staring at the cold light of the moon in the sky overhead. And before I was aware of it, or able to stop it, I double over, hands on my knees, and watch in horror as a stream of vomit comes shooting out of my mouth like the goddamn Exorcist or something. The taste is awful, and my head is spinning, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. It takes some effort to keep from passing out.
Eventually, the vomit stops and I'm able to get myself under control. More or less. I stand up and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Looking down, I look at my vomit mixing with the blood on the ground, feeling a bit guilty that I'd puked all over a dead man. Trujillo is staring at me with a small amused grin touching the corners of his mouth.
“I am confident you understand the gravity of the situation now, Michael,” he says.
My eyes riveted on the corpse at my feet, I just shake my head, my body growing numb.