I was allowed to visit him three months and seventeen days after my rescue from the bunker. The man at Organized Crime initially said that his no was final, but I bribed him with the promise to write and publish a report of my rescue, brimful of praise for the forces of law and order, exaggerating their courage, and describing their war on the narco trade as “the political project of one of the most brilliant, most courageous statesmen in the history of Mexico.” A pack of lies in exchange for Jacobo Montaña’s curriculum vitae, I can now say.
I had to take a long flight and then travel overland to a maximum-security rehabilitation center, the location of which I am not at liberty to reveal. As this was just two weeks before the much-publicized extradition to the United States of the most powerful Mexican drug baron, everyone around us was on edge. I was frisked at the entrance to the facility as though I was the prisoner. They allowed me to take in a pencil, a notebook, and a small digital recorder. I was escorted along concrete corridors—a brief, fond déjà vu of our bunker—to a room that was empty except for a pair of chairs fixed to the floor and separated by a large sheet of safety glass. I sat down on my side of the court and waited for a quarter of an hour until Jacobo was brought in. He was cuffed at the wrists and ankles and wearing a gray uniform, somewhere between pajamas and mechanics’ overalls. They led him to the seat on the other side of the glass, attached his cuffs to rings embedded in the floor and wall, and left us “alone”: by which I mean alone aside from the array of audiovisual security equipment.
We sat looking at each other in silence for several minutes, not knowing how to start.
“Rosendo and Gildardo are dead,” I said to break the ice.
“I heard,” replied Montaña, unmoved.
Closely shaved, his straight hair cut short and peppered with gray at the temples and brow, bespectacled, he looked like a portrait of an aged Richie Gecko.
Silence fell between us again. Out of sheer nerves I began to doodle in my notebook. Time was running out. Defeated, I said:
“You have to tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
I was aware that he was playing innocent just to watch me seethe. But I also noticed in his voice an anxiousness to talk to someone he knew, someone familiar and unworthy of respect, someone from the time when he was an all-powerful ruler. I tried again.
“You have to tell me why you put a price on Quentin Tarantino’s head.”
Jacobo emitted a deeply unconvincing laugh.
Then, against all the odds, he started to unleash the soliloquy I’d been aching to hear for months.
“The story I’m going to tell you happened a long time ago. It’s about a robbery at a warehouse, about an armed assault planned by an officer of the judicial police to take revenge on his lover, about a woman dressed as Muñequita Elizabeth handcuffed to a bed in the Hotel de los Beisbolistas, about a code of honor based on abuse, and a walk among the dead any Sunday night. But it’s also about how a person who one day went to the movies with his ex-girlfriend ended up being me. I’m going to tell you that story because I love you but don’t know you. There’s just one condition: turn off the tape recorder. You’ll have to reconstruct it from memory.
“First you need to know a few things. I was never some hick gomero; I’m not one of those kids born in the hills who start growing poppies just to survive and end up as narcos because they’ve got no other choice. No way. I was born into a middle-class urban family and when I finished high school I went to the capital to study acting. I was twenty-four and a NEET the first time I fired a pistol.
“That night, I went to see a movie with Bertha. Don’t ask me what was showing; some kind of horror film. I’d just returned to Saltillo after an absence of four years and, up until then, had seen hardly any of my old acquaintances. At first, while we were crossing the carpeted lobby, blowing my few remaining pesos on candy and the last available seats in the central section, I tried to behave like a well-brought-up, educated young man; she was my friend, no longer my girlfriend. But she had that smell of violet-flavored gum and clean sweat that, according to Olague, my character-development teacher, you can almost taste in your mouth when you know a sensual moment is coming. I spent half the evening trying to get my hand under her blouse. Bertha resisted with a strength that made me even hornier; she stamped on my foot and complained about the taste of my spit.
“We left the theater a little after ten. Sunday: deserted streets, a car radio emitting La Hora Nacional and, farther off, another playing Soda Stereo rock; it was the spring of ninety-one, champ. I invited Bertha to my place, but the bitch said she’d prefer to make her own way home. I found her a cab.
“I walked west through Victoria to get some air and visit the neighborhood where I used to hang out with my high school crowd. Before I reached Xicoténcatl, a voice called the name I had at that time. I soon discovered that it was Benja’s voice. By his side, in the shadows of the García department store, were Chota and Piel. I greeted them warmly but Benja gestured at me to be quiet.
“‘We’ll celebrate when it’s over, bro.’
“‘What’s over?’
“‘I’ll explain in a moment. You’re a godsend.’
“A patrol car pulled up to the sidewalk. Chota moved to the window and spoke to the driver for a few seconds. The car moved away.
“‘They’re up for it,’ said Chota, ‘but they want five pieces each.’
“‘OK,’ Benjamín replied.
“The tension among my old gang eased. Something told me I should make myself scarce, but then someone else put an arm around my shoulder.
“‘So what’s up, movie star? We thought you were in Hollywood, you bastard.’
“That was Piel. He spun me around. When I hugged him back, he gasped in pain and pushed me away.
“‘Take it easy. Can’t you see I’m wounded?’ He lifted his T-shirt to show me six stiches in his torso. ‘I got into a fight with Piedra and he put the knife in.’
“Benjamín asked where I’d been. ‘To a movie,’ I said.
“‘Sexy chick?’
“‘The chick’s Bertha.’
“‘The baker?’
“We’d called her that since we were kids. Her family owned El Pez que Fuma, the local bakery, but for us that nickname had nothing to do with her dad’s profession; it referred to her white thighs, her short stature, the breasts that were too large for her slim frame. She was fourteen when, after a great deal of pleading on my part, she agreed to date me. We were together for two months and then she told me to go to hell: she assured me that I couldn’t love her anymore because she’d two-timed me and lost her virginity. ‘It’s no big deal,’ I said, mustering the courage of a teenager who thinks he’s capable of killing. I forgive you. But she liked the other guy better.
“‘The very same,’ I replied.
“No one said anything, but we all knew that Benjamín had been the first person to fuck Bertha.
“‘Like I said, you’re a godsend, with that dumbass getting himself cut,’ said Benja, pointing to Piel. ‘Are you in?’
“‘Put me in the picture first.’
“‘Right across the street there’s a warehouse. Stereos, TV sets, cassette recorders: all Japanese. The goods are hot, no one’s going to make a report. We have to get in and out through the roof.’
“‘And transport?’
“‘You just saw it: the patrol car.’
“‘It won’t be big enough. And how are we going to get the stuff down?’
“‘We’ve brought a small cage and rope. But with any luck we won’t need them.’
“It was a lousy plan, champ, whichever way you looked at it. But I’d just bounced back in from Mexico City without a centavo to my name, drama school finished and no job.
“‘Do I have to go up? Isn’t there anyone else?’
“‘No. Piel can’t do it; he’s the lookout.’
“‘OK, just for a laugh,’ I lied.
“‘That and more,’ said
Chota.
“At around eleven Piel went to the corner to keep watch on both streets, and the rest of us climbed the two stories of the building to the night watchman’s room on the roof. Through a sliding window— lined with sheets of cardboard in place of glass—filtered the chords of a bolero. I peered through a gap in the cardboard: an old man wearing a filthy guaripa was lying on a folding bed watching a portable TV. He’d pulled down his pants and shorts so he could scratch his balls.
“The door burst open. Chota entered the room, got the old man in a neck hold, and held an ice pick in front of his eyes.
“‘Don’t make a move, you bastard. Don’t turn around.’
“‘What you whisperin’ for? You made enough noise kickin’ in the door?’
“‘Shut your mouth.’
“‘This is Don Hildebrando’s warehouse, son.’
“‘Keep it fucking shut.’ He moved the ice pick closer to the man’s eyes.
“‘Yeah, sure thing, but don’t be mean: gimme a chance to pull up my shorts.’
“Chota let him go.
“‘Just keep your cool, pop,’ said Benja from outside. ‘Give the keys to my friend there and you won’t even know we were here.’
“‘It’s Don Hildebrand’s place,’ repeated the man. ‘We got wind you were coming. You’re the guys who been hangin’ around across the street, right?’
“Chota pricked his cheek with the ice pick. The old guy fumbled in his pocket.
“‘Here’s the damn keys. But they’re only for the second floor, and those whatever-you-call-’ems are too big for the stairway.’
“While Chota was keeping watch on the old man, Benjamín and I opened the hatch and went down into the building. The watchman had been telling the truth: our only access was a spiral staircase. The main way out of the warehouse was one floor below and consisted of a long corridor leading to a metal curtain. Even if we’d had the keys, the noise of opening it would have attracted attention.
“I asked Benja if he’d brought a flashlight. He said he hadn’t. We had to do the whole thing in the dark, flicking our lighters now and again.
“We tried carrying a single gadget between the two of us. All the TV sets and larger stereos were too big for the spiral staircase, so we had to make do with the small or medium-sized stuff. Keeping your footing in the dark was no easy matter. As we ascended the stairs, the edges of the metal steps tore at the packing cases, making a fucking mess of them. We found a few high-tech cassette recorders, and Benja came across a collection of six car stereo systems. We put them in a black garbage bag.
“After moving the goods up to the roof, we had to find a way to get them down to the street. That was real tough because we had rope and a sort of cage, but no tackle block or gloves, and even though the goods weren’t very heavy, Benja and I ended up with our hands covered in rope burns. On one of the trips, the cage tipped over and a TV set fell to the ground, almost landing on Piel’s head. We finally managed to get out three TVs, four cassette recorders, two home stereo systems, and the six car stereos Benja had scavenged.
“The whole job took over an hour, and then we stopped to catch our breath. I flattened myself against a parapet between two buildings and Benja lay down on the square cover of a water tank. The boleros on the watchman’s TV continued to float through the air. In the moonlight, the outlines of the buildings made stepped patterns in space, and piles of broken glass sparkled on nearby rooftops; I remember that because I thought it was somehow like seeing the sound of crickets. If, at that moment, I’d had a few beers on hand, I wouldn’t have minded spending the rest of the night up there. It was like returning to times when Granma and Gramps used to take me to La Boca dam on vacation, and at night—while they were talking about ghosts and swatting the mosquitoes biting at their feet in the dark—I’d amuse myself watching the lemon-yellow flickering of fireflies on the water.
“That feeling was short-lived. The patrol car arrived. We went to find Chota, freed the watchman, descended by the air-con system, and slid down the gutter to the sidewalk.
“‘What the hell are you guys playing at?’ said one of the officers. ‘We’ve already driven around the block three times. The feds could turn up any second now and you’re fooling around up there.’
“‘Fuck this,’ said the other cop, who was checking the goods. ‘Japanese, you said Japanese. These are just Chinese rip-offs.’
“‘Hey, no problem,’ said Benja. ‘We’ll sort things out later.’
“The second officer found the bag with the car stereos, hauled it out, and got into his vehicle.
“‘These are ours. We’re out of here. God alone knows the mess that crap’s gonna get you into.’
“‘Is there any water around here?’ I asked Piel. ‘I want to wash up.’
“‘There’s a wall hydrant a bit farther along. I’ll come with you.’
“‘Make it quick,’ ordered Benja. ‘Super quick.’ Then, turning to the cop, he said, ‘Don’t be assholes. Give us a ride to Topo Chico, we’ll divvy it up and go our own ways.’
“‘You kidding?’ said the second cop. ‘You’re in the shit. Partner, tell ’em to go to hell.’
“Piel opened the faucet and washed his hands and face. I did the same. I had my eyes shut under the stream of water when I heard the screech of tires. I raised my head and saw a white Chevy parked near the other members of our group. Two dark figures emerged. Another car pulled up beside me. Piel made to run, but a third figure leaped from the car, tackled him, lifted him by the collar, and punched him twice.
“‘Please, take it easy. I’ve got a knife wound.’ Piel attempted to raise his T-shirt to show his stitches but the other man must have thought he was trying to reach for a weapon, because he twisted his arm, pushed him against the wall, and continued punching him until, in the streetlight, he saw that his knuckles were stained red. Then he stopped. Piel’s body slumped onto the asphalt. Another two figures got out of the car.
“I turned to face the wall with my hands behind my head and legs apart, as I’d seen in the movies. The water was still running from the faucet. My pants were wet. Behind me, a voice said:
“‘Hey, Chacón. This one’s not so dumb. I want him in the Cutlass with me when we get to the crime scene.’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“My first thought was that the voice sounded scarily calm. My second was that it was going to be embarrassing to appear before the prosecutor with my pants and shoes soaked, as if I’d wet myself from fright when they arrested me.
“Benja and Chota had already been overpowered by the squad from the Chevy. There were six judicials in all. They herded us into a group, frisked us, and slapped us around a bit. Then they loaded us into the pickup and handcuffed us to a horizontal steel bar soldered to the cab. One of the cops tried to save the situation.
“‘Hey, listen, this is our arrest. It’s petty theft.’
“‘I’m Captain Aldana.’
“‘Sir. At your service, captain.’
“‘I’ve got business with this bunch,’ said Aldana. ‘They’re wanted for armed robbery of federal gas stations. Best thing you can do is get back on patrol and forget you ever saw them. I don’t want Don Hildebrando getting the wrong idea when he sees this mess … Clear up the frigging crap, will you?’ And he kicked one of the television sets we’d stolen.
“The uniformed officers did as they were told.
“‘Noriega, drive these gentlemen to the planned location. Take Chacón and Muerto with you.’
“That was when our real Sunday started.
“The second time Bertha and I dated, it lasted a weekend. I was in senior high at the Narváez and her parents had enrolled her in a private Catholic school, so we’d seen very little of each other over the years. But one day our two schools joined up for a trip to the San Lorenzo Canyon, organized by an environmental agency to encourage ecological awareness among young people. It was a disaster: we ended up starting a fire.
“I’d
been thinking of showing her that she wasn’t the only fish in the sea, but right from the start she followed me everywhere, and don’t get the idea that she wasted time trying to explain things: the night of our arrival she came to the tent I was sharing with a classmate. Wearing almost nothing. She didn’t give a shit if we were seen or heard. That Friday was the first time we had sex. Then, early Saturday morning, she volunteered us to gather firewood and fetch water. We fucked in the nude on a boulder about a hundred and twenty feet above the camp. While she was going at it on my thighs, making incoherent sounds, her head thrown back to the sky, I was staring down into the void to frighten myself into not coming too soon. Later, while she was jumping on a thick branch to detach it from its trunk and so speed up the firewood gathering, Bertha said:
“‘Doesn’t this tree we’re trying to kill look beautiful?’
“First thing on Sunday morning, the forest rangers kicked us out of the canyon. The school buses took us as far as Alameda Zaragoza, where our families were waiting for us. In the seat beside me, Bertha pointed out of the window and said:
“‘Hey, there’s my boyfriend,’ and she waved to the crowd of people huddled together by the Lago de la República.
“She gave me a quick kiss and said goodbye. Then she got off the bus and flung herself on some guy. It could have been any guy: I can’t even remember his face. She kissed him—that I do remember—as if she’d spent the whole trip missing him …
“And that’s what I was recalling as the judicials were driving us across the city in a pickup. We were heading for a stretch of wasteland in the Ramos Arizpe industrial estate. We didn’t say a word the whole journey; Benja and Chota looked panicked and Piel was out for the count.
“When we reached our destination, they lined us up beside the pickup. Two other vehicles were parked nearby. They put on grupera music, opened cans of beer and a bottle of Buchanan’s. Every now and then they threatened us with pistols, joking about letting us run and then shooting us while we were making our escape. Piel was still lying in the pickup, shaking with fever.
Bring Me the Head of Quentin Tarantino Page 13