The Dragon Delasangre by Alan F. Troop

“I don’t have time for that. I want to leave in three days. Have the boat fueled and provisioned for a long cruise. Make sure the GPS is working. I’ll need charts and coordinates for the Caribbean.”
    Jeremy clenches his jaw, and growls, “That’s not what you pay me to do.”
    I ignore him. “Bill my account whatever you think is fair,” I say. “I’ll come to your house three nights from now. Have the Grand Banks ready.”
    He stares at the floor.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be coming by water—on my Grady White. You can use it while I’m gone.”
    Red-faced, curling his lip, Jeremy grumbles, “As if I’d be caught dead on a fishing boat.”
    Tired of his recalcitrance, I snap, “You forget, I could arrange that too, any time I want.”
    The attorney doesn’t react to my threat. He says nothing. Neither do I. After years of experience with the man, I know what to expect after a confrontation. He’ll change his demeanor, change the subject, act as if nothing has occurred.
    After a few moments, his face returns to its usual funereal pallor. He looks up and grins a false smile at me. “Peter, do you know someone by the name of Santos . . . Jorge Santos?”
    I frown at the sly slant of Tindall’s smile, shake my head. “Emily mentioned his calls. She said you talked to him.”
    â€œHe’s a most insistent young man. Kept asking whenyou’ll be back, demanding an appointment to meet with you. He said there were some questions about his sister he needs to ask you. He said she’s been missing.”
    Maria again. I hate the reminder. I sigh. “I don’t have time for him now. Have Emily call him, tell him I’ll be glad to meet with him shortly after I return to town.”
    â€œI don’t care about the girl. I’m concerned that he’s learned that you can be found at this number. You’re sure you just don’t want me to have Arturo take care of him?”
    â€œI’m sure,” I say.
    Jeremy cocks his right eyebrow. I know my refusal to harm the man has piqued his curiosity, but I refuse to issue a death warrant just to quiet the man’s curiosity. “At least let me ask Arturo to have research done on him,” he says. “It wouldn’t hurt to know more about this Mr. Santos before you see him.”
    I pause before I answer. Do I care what Tindall learns about Santos? He’ll certainly read whatever report Arturo makes. Finally, I decide nothing harmful can come from it, shrug and say, “Okay, go ahead.”
    â€œGood,” Jeremy says.
    Something in the smugness of his tone annoys me, as if he thinks he’s just gained the upper hand. I hate that I can never be sure that he will stay intimidated, despise the self-satisfied grin on his face. “Your car,” I say, grinning at the effect I know my request will create.
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour Mercedes. I need to borrow it for the rest of the day—to go shopping.”
    Jeremy’s face goes red again. “You ever heard of taking a taxi? How am I supposed to get home?”
    â€œYou could wait until I bring it back, work late while you wait.”
    â€œYou know I don’t like to work late,” he says, spitting out his words.
    â€œFunny, I saw your Mercedes here late a few months ago. If you weren’t working, what were you doing?” My eyes go to the missing, smallest digit of his left hand. Only a small stump remains as a reminder of what had once been there, a reminder of the consequences of straining my good will. Father had said every generation of Tindalls would have to learn anew the penalty for disloyalty and Jeremy had received his lesson from me years ago.
    He blanches when he sees the direction of my glance, then unconsciously reaches with his right hand to cover the sight of his injury.
    â€œI didn’t say I never