braceros in here。 Start with that bunch under the tree out front。”
“You’ll want the foreman； too；” said one brother as the other left to round up the braceros。 “He
translates for us。 None of the field workers speaks English。”
“You ？” Riley asked Finn。
“You get the first round。 Play it nice and easy and dumb。 If they step in it； I’ll take over。”
Salerno returned with eight Mexicans in tow。 Their easy flippancy was gone。 The winery was dim
after the bright morning outside。 Squinting； the men tried to see why they had been dragged
back to the scene of the previous night’s crime。
Riley flipped through his notebook as though looking for the right questions to ask。 “Do any of
you speak English？”
A man shrugged。 “I do。”
Finn looked at the man narrowly。 He was compact； muscular； and had a lazy yet aggressive air
about him。 He was wearing boots。
“Your name？” said Riley。
“Rincón。 Franco Rincón。”
“Translate for me； please。” Despite Riley’s smile； it was more of a demand than a request。
Franco shrugged again。 “Si。 I will talk for you。”
“Ask them if they saw or heard anything last night。 Tell them that it is a matter of great
importance。”
As Franco spoke； Finn watched carefully； studying the Mexicans。 Franco was at ease in his
position of command。 He was accustomed to leading men rather than working in fields。 The
men were lined up in a loose； informal row； like guerrilla soldiers。 Four of them wore huaraches。
None of them seemed particularly interested in what Franco was saying。 He turned back to
Riley。 “They know nothing。”
“Tell them there’s a reward；” said Riley。 “A hundred – no； a thousand dollars。”
Franco translated。
The men made sounds of both greed and awe。 One man in particular was impressed。
“That’s five times what we were paid！” he said in Spanish。
“Shut your hole； Griego！” warned Franco in the same language。
Finn stepped up to Franco and began speaking in rapid； hard Spanish。
“Why should he keep a closed mouth？” Finn demanded。 “What was he paid so little for？ He
looks tired。 Maybe he was up all night； no？ Maybe he is hung over from drinking the green wine
he stole here。”
Franco looked at Finn’s eyes； then looked away。 Finn moved quickly to intersect Franco’s gaze；
but he did not touch the Mexican。 Not yet。
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“You； Franco。 I’m speaking to you；” said Finn。 “Tell me what that little man is keeping inside his
closed hole。”
“Nothing；” said Franco； trying not to give way before the man with the soft Spanish words and
hard gringo eyes。
‘‘Are you a little boy that you can’t speak for yourself？ Finn demanded of Griego。
Griego looked into Finn’s unforgiving eyes； then glanced nervously at Franco。
“Don’t look to him；” said Finn。 “Franco says close your hole； but it is not Franco who will feel
my fists and boots break his balls。 It is you who will feel that； unless you talk to me。”
“Shut up； Griego！” Franco shouted。 “His threats are only air。 This isn’t Mexico。 He’s not
permitted to hurt you。”
Smiling； Finn said in English； “I was hoping you’d bring that up； pendejo。”
As Finn turned； his hand swept down to his boot and came back up holding a knife。
“There’s this little clock in my head；” he said casually。 “Tick tick tick tick。” The knife moved
back and forth like the arm of a metronome。 “Seconds going by。 Tick。 Tick。 Nothing’s quite as
dead as yesterday； amigo。 Would you like to talk about last night or be sent back to yesterday？”
“Now just a minute； mister；” said one of the Salerno brothers。 “Franco’s a good foreman。 You
can’t threaten him like this。”
“Freddy；” said Sheriff Brown； taking the brother by the arm； “you and Bob have been
promising me a taste of the thirty…nine crop。 Now is as good a time as any； and better than
most。”
Sheriff Brown took the Salerno brothers and led them out of the barn。
Branscomb looked at Finn； who ignored him。 The deputy turned to Riley； who hitched his
shoulders in a don’t…look…at…me shrug。 Finn watched Franco。 Franco watched the knife blade
flicking from side to side； marking off seconds。 Riley realized that he himself was silently
counting； had been counting since Finn’s knife had appeared。
Twenty…five。 Twenty…six。 Twenty…seven。
“Time’s up； pendejo。”
Even with that warning； the foreman was not prepared for the speed of Finn’s attack。 Before
Franco could blink； Finn had seized Franco’s middle finger and bent it flat along his palm in an
agonizing grip。
Franco paled。 Other than that； he gave no sign that he felt pain。
“That’s what I thought；” sighed Finn。 “One of the tough ones。”
Finn started to lead Franco away。
Deputy Branscomb stepped halfway in front of Finn。 “Now I’m the last one to question God’s
will；” said Branscomb easily； “but I’d sure like to know why you’re going to do whatever you’re
going to do with Salerno’s Mexican。”
Finn decided it would be quicker to explain than to push back。
“You know what machismo means？” asked Finn。
“Balls。 Manhood。 Something like that；” said Brans…comb。
“Close enough。 Franco here is muy macho； so whatever I get from him will be the hard way。”
Finn shrugged。 “His choice。 But I don’t have time to beat the truth out of him； so I’ll have to use
this。”
The knife glittered as Finn moved it abruptly。 He spoke in Spanish。 The field workers gasped
and stepped back。 A few crossed themselves。 Franco did not move because he could not； but
sweat slid from his forehead to his dark cheeks。
“What did you say to them？” asked Branscomb。
“I told them that Franco will either talk to me or he won’t have any manhood to protect。”
Finn brushed past the deputy。 Franco moved in unwilling lockstep； prisoner to Finn’s
excruciating grip。 In the silence； the remaining men could clearly hear boots crunching over
broken glass。 The two men disappeared behind a vat of raw wine。
Finn’s voice cut through the silence。 “Talk to me； pendejo。”
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The waiting men heard no answer。 Then came the sound of a man spitting。 Something heavy
slammed against the vat。 There was a grunt； then the snarl of ripping cloth。 Franco shrieked；
high and terrible； a sound of primal terror。 The sound climbed unendurably； then stopped as
abruptly as it had begun。
Finn appeared suddenly out of the vat’s odorous shadows。
“Tú！” said Finn； pointing to Griego。 “Ven acá！ Pronto！”
Riley stared。 For the first time he confronted the fact that this might be more than a brutal bluff。
Finn’s voice was as frightening as the bloody knife in his hand。
Griego looked around hurriedly； but there was no escape。 He began speaking so quickly that his
words sounded alike。 Finn listened。 Gradually his face lost its savagery。 He asked a few clipped
questions。 Griego answered eagerly。 Finn spoke again； gesturing to the vat behind which Franco
lay。 Griego nodded。
Finn put his knife back in his boot。
Riley started breathing again until Finn grabbed Griego’s left foot； looked at the sole of the
huarache； then released the foot so quickly that Griego staggered。
“Bueno；” said Finn。 “ándale！” He turned toward Riley。 “Go up to the house and call Coughlan。
Tell him to surround the Fragrant Petal flower shop in Little Tokyo。 Surround it； seal it off； but
don’t go in。 Understand？ I don’t want anyone leaving that place； and I don’t want anyone going
inside until I get there。”
“Right；” said Riley。 He hesitated。 “Look； you didn’t really hurt that guy； did you？”
“Make the call；” said Finn； turning back to the braceros。 “I’ll clean up here。”
San Francisco
28 Hours 39 Minutes After Trinity
The curtain fell into place。 Vanessa turned and moved across the room； passing Hecht without
looking at him。
“The mortuary was closed；” he began； closing the door behind him。 “I couldn’t hear anyone
moving around there or next door。 The garage was open。” He watched Vanessa warily。 “There
weren’t any vehicles inside； not even a hearse。 I tried the inside door and – are you listening？”
Vanessa opened her purse； screwed the silencer onto her pistol and went to the door。 “The
shops were locked； one garage was open； there was nothing inside；” she summarized。 “Anything
else？”
“The door inside the garage was locked； too。”
“That’s all？”
“Uh – yeah。”
“Then shut up。”
Vanessa stood with one hand on the doorknob。 In her other hand； the silencer made the barrel
of the gun look unbalanced。 She listened intently。 Suddenly she opened the door； keeping it as a
shield between herself and the hallway。
Slaven hurried into the room； dragging a Mexican teenager with him。 The boy stared around the
room； his eyes large and dark。 “Where’s Uncle Refugio？”
Vanessa looked at Slaven； who had not let go of the boy’s arm。
“His name is Jaime Reyes。 He stopped for gas；” said Slaven tersely。 “He works in his father’s
mortuary。”
Jaime looked at the people in the room； confused。 Then he focused on Slaven； the man who had
known so much about his uncle。 “You said Refugio needed me。”
“Yes；” said Vanessa smoothly。 “He wanted you to tell us about the Japanese man in the Army
uniform。”
Jaime looked at each face； white skin and light eyes – strangers。 He looked away。 “All the
Japanese left a lon