Two‑tone headed through the mirrored corridor that led from the outside patio to the dance floor. As he turned to check his safety pin in the reflection, he sensed a figure looming up behind him. He spun, but it was too late. A pair of rocklike arms pinned his body face‑first against the glass.
The punk tried to twist around. “Eduardo? Hey, man, is that you?” Two‑Tone felt a hand brush over his wallet before the figure leaned firmly into his back. “Eddie!” the punk cried. “Quit fooling around! Some guy was lookin' for Megan.”
The figure held him firmly.
“Hey, Eddie, man, cut it out!” But when Two‑Tone looked up into the mirror, he saw the figure pinning him was not his friend at all.
The face was pockmarked and scarred. Two lifeless eyes stared out like coal from behind wire‑rim glasses. The man leaned forward, placing his mouth against Two‑Tone’s ear. A strange, voice choked, “Adonde fue? Where’d he go?” The words sounded somehow misshapen.
The punk froze, paralyzed with fear.
“Adonde fue?” the voice repeated. “El Americano.”
“The . . . the airport. Aeropuerto,” Two‑Tone stammered.
“Aeropuerto?” the man repeated, his dark eyes watching Two‑Tone’s lips in the mirror.
The punk nodded.
“Tenia el anillo? Did he have the ring?”
Terrified, Two‑Tone shook his head. “No.”
“Viste el anillo? Did you see the ring?”
Two‑Tone paused. What was the right answer?
“Viste el anillo?” the muffled voice demanded.
Two‑Tone nodded affirmatively, hoping honesty would pay. It did not. Seconds later he slid to the floor, his neck broken.