by Don Winslow
Poor Damien, Ric thinks. He’s heard that the kid slashed his wrists in Puente Grande.
The songs are already out there—
You can’t cage the Young Wolf
He set himself free
To join his father.
What a bunch of total bullshit, Ric thinks. We’re a jacked-up group, Los Hijos.
Salvador Barrera dead.
Rudolfo and Luis dead.
Damien dead.
The Esparzas shot up.
Me on the run.
The only one who’s doing halfway decent is Rubén Ascensión. The quiet, sensible shy one, the one who would always be cast as the solid best friend in any movie.
Ric thinks, We had the world in our hands and let it slip through our fingers.
“We still have something to offer,” Núñez is saying. “We still have men, money, product. Not to mention the Barrera legacy.”
His father still harbors illusions.
This is him grasping at straws, still believing that he can somehow retrieve the situation and get his power and prestige back.
Ric has more modest goals.
Keep his father and himself out of prison or the dirt.
It’s not going to be easy. No one trusts us, not after what we did to the Esparzas. Worse, no one needs us. We’d go to any bargaining table as beggars. And there’s only one place left for us to go.
Tito.
We could offer him gunmen in Baja to finish off Iván, Ric thinks, and sicarios for Juárez and Laredo. We acknowledge him as El Patrón. In exchange, he gives us protection from the police and politicians that now belong to him, Caro, and the syndicate.
It’s a slim hope—Tito doesn’t need our men, half of them are already going over—but it’s our only hope.
But how can I even approach Tito? Ric asks himself.
He goes to his own life for the answer.
The way you always approach a father—through the son.
Jesus, Ric thinks.
Rubén is in Baja.
Rubén Ascensión isn’t an easy guy to get hold of these days.
The head of security for his father in Baja now, he’s insulated from the day-to-day, he’s not out on the street in La Paz or Cabo, and it’s not like Ric can take the risk of spending a lot of time on the streets in either of those cities. He has to keep his head down in case Iván, Belinda or even Rubén himself decides to lop it off. Or some freelancer looking to make points by taking out a Núñez.
Ric’s head is on a swivel as he looks for Rubén.
In Tijuana, he leaves word at a club they used to frequent. Word and the number of a burn phone. Then he settles into a modest hotel and waits.
Two days later, Rubén calls him. “Where are you?”
“Yeah, right.”
“You’re the one reaching out.”
“I need your help, ’mano,” Ric says. “To talk to your father.”
“John 4:16?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Rubén says. “You don’t have to talk to my dad, you can talk to me. What are we talking about?”
“You want the Esparzas out of business as much as we do,” Ric says. “Maybe we can help you with that.”
Rubén gives him an address.
“Rubén, no offense,” Ric says, “but I need your word that if I come there, I also leave.”
“You’re the ones that ambush people at sit-downs,” Rubén says. “Not us.”
Well, he’s got me there, Ric thinks.
The address in Cabo San Lucas is a large house up in the hills on Cerro Colorado. The place looks new, the landscaping isn’t even in yet. Three SUVs are parked outside, two Mercedes in the large driveway, and a number of late-model, expensive cars on the street.
Rubén is having a party, Ric thinks.
Gunmen get out of an SUV as Ric pulls up. He raises his arms and they pat him down. One leads him up to the front door and rings the bell.
Rubén answers. He reaches out and pulls Ric into a hug. “It’s great to see you, brother.”
They go inside.
It’s a party, all right. Throbbing music, a houseful of people—narcos, musicians, your generic Cabo beautiful people, gorgeous girls.
Iván has a woman on his lap.
He looks up at Ric and says, “Party time, motherfucker.”
“You’re making the wrong choice,” Ric says to Rubén. “My father—”
“I guess you haven’t seen the news,” Rubén says.
He sticks a laptop in front of Ric, who sees a photo of his father—haggard, unshaven, disheveled in a wrinkled shirt—his elbows being held by federales.
“Your father was arrested this morning,” Rubén says. “They took him out of his condo. He’s in Puente Grande.”
It’s a deft touch, Ric thinks, locking my dad up in the same prison where he was warden. And we’re done. The government has turned its back on us. Doesn’t matter, I’m dead anyway, because I’m the guest of honor at this party. He takes a shot, though. “I can give you—”
“You can’t give us what you don’t have,” Rubén says.
“Just let me out of here,” Ric says. “I’ll go away, you’ll never hear from me again.”
“No can do,” Rubén says. “You were part of the deal.”
Turns out that the Esparzas don’t want to be in heroin anymore. They’re content to go back to the old family business—coke and meth. And they acknowledge Tito as jefe. Iván made the offer through Rubén, who relayed it to his dad.
Tito accepted.
There was a kicker, though.
Ric.
“You knew I’d be coming to you,” Ric says.
“You didn’t have a choice,” Rubén says. “But Iván beat you to it.”
My mistake, Ric thinks. I was betting that Iván’s ego was too big for him to bend the knee to his father’s former guard dog.
Well, I lost that bet.
“I’m sorry it worked out this way, nothing personal,” Rubén says. Then he leaves the room.
Iván asks, “You know what really burns my ass?”
“Everything?”
“My tennis serve,” Iván says. “It was coming along real good, then someone put a bullet through my ball joint. Now I can’t lift my arm over my head. Did you notice the scar on Oviedo’s face? No worries, I’ll show it to you. Three plastic surgeries with another couple to come, and he’s blind in one eye. You missed Alfredo, but the kid has nightmares, do you believe that? He pisses the bed.”
Ric doesn’t say that he didn’t know about the ambush, that it was all his father.
It doesn’t matter now.
So he doesn’t say anything.
“You took us out of action for six months,” Iván says, “and Tito used those six months to make himself king. I had to go suck his cock, you know how that felt, Ric?”
A worse injury than the bullet, Ric thinks.
Iván says, “You were there when Tito came to me for permission to go into heroin. Now I had to go to him and tell him I was getting out of heroin, that I was content with what we once gave him. So guess how happy I am to see you, Ric.”
He lights a joint, sucks on it, then holds it up to Ric’s mouth. “You’re going to need this.”
Ric takes a long drag and holds it deep in his lungs.
It’s primo shit.
“The last party tonight, Ricky boy,” Iván says. “The last stand of Los Hijos. We get drunk, we get high, we get laid, and when we’re drunk out, drugged out and fucked out, you go out.”
It’s Rubén’s house but Iván’s party.
You have to hand it to him, Ric thinks, he has a certain sick kind of style; the motherfucker has actually had an execution catered. There are tables of food, and uniformed waitresses work the floor with trays of hors d’oeuvres, lines of coke and fat blunts.
A band arrives, sets up in the courtyard outside by the pool and starts banging out norteño.
Ric takes it all in—the food, the
booze, the dope, the music. Why shouldn’t he? There’s no point in trying to run, the place is ringed with Rubén’s people who would gun him down. And if he sees that as a form of quick suicide, Iván has already informed him that the sicarios have strict orders to shoot him in the legs.
He gets drunk, he gets high, he stuffs himself with ceviche and camarones, with tender strips of steak marinated in lime juice. He dances with beautiful women, he even strips down and jumps in the pool. Dives under the water and lets it play over him cool and peaceful.
When he comes up, he’s face-to-face with Oviedo.
The scar is bad, a vermillion slash running from under his left eye up to his temple.
His eye stares blindly, accusingly, at Ric.
“Enjoying your party?” Oviedo asks.
“I’m sorry, O.”
“You will be.”
Ric gets out of the pool and wraps a towel around his waist.
Iván gets the guests’ attention, has everyone’s glass filled with Cristal, and calls for a toast.
Ric can tell he’s jacked up on coke.
“¡Todos!” he shouts. “We’re here tonight to celebrate old friends! Here’s to Los Hijos!”
Ric tosses back his drink.
Glasses are refilled.
“Here’s to absent friends!” Iván shouts. “Here’s to Salvador Barrera! Rest in peace, buddy!”
They drink.
More champagne.
“To Damien Tapia!” Iván yells. “He took himself out, but we still love the fucked-up kid! Here’s to Rudolfo Sánchez, who I did not have killed, BTW! Here’s to Luis Sánchez . . . about whom . . . I can’t say the same thing!”
Some nervous laughter.
Down the hatch.
“And here’s to my old cuate, Ric,” Iván says, lifting his glass to him, his voice softening. “My friend, mi hermano . . . sangre de mi sangre . . . whom I loved, who tried to kill me. This is his last party, so we have to make it a good one. This is the last party of Los Hijos . . . After this . . .”
He doesn’t finish, just raises his glass and drinks.
Ric drinks.
A little while later, Iván comes over to him, sits beside him by the pool. They’re both drunk and high as hell.
“We were Los Hijos,” Iván says. “We had the world by the balls. What happened, man?”
“We fucked it up,” Ric says.
Iván nods solemnly. “We fucked it up.”
They sit quietly for a few minutes, then Iván says, “If I don’t do this, people will think I’m weak.”
“I get it.”
It’s surreal, Ric thinks, waiting for your own death. He doesn’t think that anyone really believes they’re going to die, even condemned men. It’s just too fucking weird. But he asks Iván, “Can I call my wife, my kid? Say goodbye?”
Iván digs in his pocket, hands him a phone and steps away to give him a little privacy.
Karin answers. “It’s four in the morning.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Where are you?” Karin asks.
“Cabo,” Ric says. “Could you wake Valeria up for me? I want to talk to her.”
“Are you drunk?”
“A little,” Ric says. “Please?”
“Ric . . .”
But she comes back on a couple of minutes later with their daughter.
“Papi?” Valeria says sleepily.
“I love you, niña,” Ric says. “Do you know that? Papi loves you very much.”
“I know,” she says. “When are you coming home?”
Ric wants to cry. “Soon, honey. Put Mami back on, okay?”
“Okay.”
Karin gets back on. “What’s going on, Ric?”
“I’m calling to say I love you.”
“You are drunk.”
“And I’m sorry for everything,” Ric says.
“Is this because of your father?” Karin asks. “It’s been all over the news.”
“If anything happens to me,” Ric says, “lawyers will be in touch. You’ll be taken care of.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“Get some coffee,” Karin says. “Don’t drive.”
“All right. Good night.”
He clicks off.
Now he knows what his father was trying to tell him, trying to force him to do—spend more time with his wife and kid. I’d give anything now, he thinks, for more time with them. You always think you’re going to have forever, you can do it tomorrow. And now you can’t.
Now it’s too late.
Iván gives him a minute.
“I got a woman for you,” he says. “I wouldn’t send a man off without getting laid one last time.”
A terminal fuck, Ric thinks.
Easy come, easier go.
Why not?
He gets to his feet and follows Iván back into the house and down a hallway to a closed door.
“She’s waiting in there,” Iván says. “Just so you know, there aren’t any windows.”
Ric goes in.
Belinda lies on the bed.
Decked out in black leather from head to toe.
“Are you going to fuck me or kill me?” Ric asks.
“First one,” she says, “then the other.”
“Let’s skip the sex,” Ric says. “You probably have razor blades up your vag.”
“That would be great, wouldn’t it?” Belinda says. “Shred some guy’s cock? You want the fuck, Ricky. You want to delay what’s next as long as you can. I’ve been told to hurt you, really hurt you.”
“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
“You can have my mouth, my pussy, my ass, anything you want,” Belinda says. “It gets me hot that after I do you, I, you know, do you.”
“You’re so sick.”
“I know,” she says.
She kneels in front of him and unwraps the towel. Goes down on him for what she’s always called a “Belinda Special,” using her lips, her tongue, her fingers, her tits. It always got him off like a burst fire hydrant, but now he can’t even get hard.
“What’s the matter, baby?” Belinda asks.
“You’re kidding me right now.”
“It’s your last chance,” Belinda says. “You want my culo?”
“No.”
She shrugs and gets up.
“Why you?” Ric asks. “Why are you the one who’s going to do it?”
“Because,” she says with a smile, “I asked.”
They find an old sweat suit and make Ric put it on, then plastic-tie his hands behind his back and walk him out.
The party is over.
Most people have left, a few are passed out on couches, chairs or the floor. Outside, the sun is just coming up, the sky is vivid in red, purple and orange.
It’s so beautiful, Ric thinks.
They put him in the back of an SUV with tinted windows.
Iván comes out and opens the door. “I thought I wanted to watch, but I changed my mind.”
“Iván—”
“Don’t beg, Ric,” Iván says. “I want them to write songs about you. That you went out like a man.”
“Just put one in my head. Please.”
“You’ll go out screaming like a little bitch,” Iván says, suddenly hardening. “You’ll go out pissing and shitting yourself, the things she has planned for you. But I’ll make them cut the vid-clip before that.”
“Please.” Ric starts to cry.
“Jesus, Ric.” Iván slams the door shut.
Belinda gets in the front passenger seat, turns around and puts a hood over Ric’s head, then tells the driver to head out. Ric tries to control his terror but his right leg starts to twitch, then to spasm until it starts banging against the front seat.
They drive for what feels like three hours.
An endless three hours.
Then the car stops.
The hood is pulled off his face.
They’re pulled
over by a Buddhist pagoda and Ric sees that he’s in Mexicali, by the border crossing.
He’s sent a lot of dope across here.
Belinda gets out and opens his door. Takes out a knife and cuts the ties off his hands. “Walk to the border. DEA is waiting for you.”
Ric looks at her puzzled.
“You called them earlier,” Belinda says. “Told them you wanted to turn yourself in. It’s not all good news, baby. They have an eleven-count indictment on you.”
He gets out of the vehicle. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll take my chances here,” Belinda says.
“They’ll kill you for this.”
“Those pussies?” Belinda says. “I’ll feed them their balls. Now get going, mojado.”
She gets back in the car and it drives off.
Ric walks along Cristóbal Colón to the border crossing.
DEA agents are waiting for him. They arrest him for conspiracy to distribute methamphetamine, cocaine, and heroin, and conspiracy to launder money.
Four hours later he’s in the federal lockup in San Diego.
It’s the same cell his godfather, Adán, once occupied.
3
Cheap Guns
Wars and a man I sing—an exile driven on by Fate.
—Virgil
Aeneid, book 1 (Robert Fagles, trans.)
Queens, New York
March 2017
Nico stands on the roof of the building and looks out.
Jackson Heights is beautiful.
A lot of people don’t think so, but Nico does.
There are nice buildings and trees and parks and food is everywhere. Where he lives with his uncle and aunt off Eighty-Second and Roosevelt is above La Casa del Pollo, so he can smell chicken all the time, the scent coming up through the floor. On the same block is Dunkin’ Donuts, Mama Empanada and, wonder of wonders, Popeye’s Louisiana Kitchen, which has opened up entire new worlds for Nico when, on Fridays, he and his uncle go while his aunt is still at work.
Or they used to, anyway.
Extra crispy, Nico thinks, might be the most beautiful words in the English language.
He started to learn English at school, just a few blocks away on Eighty-Second. To get there, Nico walked underneath the Roosevelt Avenue El, and he loved to stand there and feel the train rumble over him.