The Power Of The Dog Read Online Free PDF

the yerba he’d ended up smoking in the after-hours club Adán had hauled him to. His eyes were black and there were still traces of dark, dried blood under his nose. He’d showered but hadn’t shaved because one, he hadn’t had time; and two, the thought of dragging anything across his swollen jaw was just unacceptable. And even though he lowered himself into the chair slowly, his bruised ribs screamed at him for the offense.
     
    Taylor looked at him with undisguised disgust. “You had quite a night for yourself.”
     
    Art smiled sheepishly. Even that hurt. “You know about that.”
     
    “You know how I heard?” Taylor said. “I had a meeting this morning with Miguel Barrera. You know who that is, Keller? He’s a Sinaloan state cop, the special assistant to the governor, the man in this area. We’ve been trying to get him to work with us for two years. And I have to hear from him that one of my agents is brawling with the locals—”
     
    “It was a sparring match.”
     
    “Whatever,” Taylor said. “Look, these people are not our pals or our drinking buddies. They’re our targets, and—”
     
    “Maybe that’s the problem,” Art heard himself say. Some disembodied voice that he couldn’t control. He’d meant to keep his mouth shut, but he was just too fucked-up to maintain the discipline.
     
    “What’s the problem?”
     
    Fuck it, Art thought. Too late now. So he answered, “That we look at ‘these people’ like ‘targets.’ ”
     
    And anyway, it pissed him off. People as targets? Been there, done that. Besides that, I learned more about how things work down here last night than I did in the last three months.
     
    “Look, you’re not in an undercover role here,” Taylor said. “Work with the local law enforcement people—”
     
    “Can’t, Tim,” Art said. “You did a good job of queering me with them.”
     
    “I’m going to get you out of here,” Tim said. “I want you off my team.”
     
    “Start the paperwork,” Art said. He was sick of this shit.
     
    “Don’t worry, I will,” Taylor said. “In the meantime, Keller, try to conduct yourself like a professional?”
     
    Art nodded and got up out of the chair.
     
    Slowly.
     
    While the Damoclean sword of bureaucracy was dangling, Art thought he might as well keep working.
     
    What’s the saying, he asked himself. They can kill you but they can’t eat you? Which isn’t true—they can kill you and eat you—but that doesn’t mean you go easy. The thought of going to work on a senatorial staff depressed the hell out of him. It wasn’t so much the work as it was Althie’s father setting it up, Art having a somewhat ambivalent attitude toward father figures.
     
    It was the idea of failure.
     
    You don’t let them knock you out, you make them knock you out. You make them break their fucking hands knocking you out, you let them know that they’ve been in a fight, you give them something to remember you by every time they look in a mirror.
     
    He went right back to the gym.
     
    “¡Qué noche bruta!” he said to Adán. “Me mata la cabeza.”
     
    “Pero gozamos.”
     
    We enjoyed ourselves all right, Art thought. My head is splitting, anyway. “How’s the Little Lion?”
     
    “Cesar? Better than you,” Adán said. “Better than me.”
     
    “Where’s Raúl?”
     
    “Probably out getting laid,” Adán said. “Es el coño, ése. You want a beer?”
     
    “Hell, yes.”
     
    Damn, it tasted good going down. Art took a long, wonderful swig, then laid the ice-cold bottle against his swollen cheek.
     
    “You look like shit,” Adán said.
     
    “That good?”
     
    “Almost.”
     
    Adán signaled the waiter and ordered a plate of cold meats. The two men sat at the outdoor table and watched the world go by.
     
    “So you’re a narc,” Adán said.
     
    “That’s me.”
     
    “My uncle is a cop.”
     
    “You didn’t go into the family business?”
     
    Adán said, “I’m a