Hard Luck

by Pascal Scott

  Follow Señorita Forrest, Don Emilio had told El Ladrillo. The Brick did as he was told. He reported back that the gringa had not left the Hotel Rosa until Monday, June 3. When she had emerged, she had taken a taxi to the Polanco shopping district where she bought silk shirts and snakeskin cowboy boots. The Brick followed her for a week. Señorita Forrest went dancing at a gay club called El Omni and saw the matadora Cristina Sánchez fight a bull in the Plaza de Toros arena. She stopped at a pharmacia for ibuprofen, Amoxicillin, Imodium, and Depakote.

  On Friday, June 7, she joined a group of European tourists on a bus to Teotihuacan, the ancient Mesoamerican city twenty-five miles north of Mexico City. El Ladrillo donned aviator sunglasses and a black baseball cap and joined the expedition. Their guide was a jovial, middle-aged campesino. From him, the gringos learned that the Aztecs believed Teotihuacan was the birthplace of the gods. The most important god was Huitzilopochtli, the god of war. Teotihuacanos practiced human sacrifice, the campesino told them. Enemy warriors captured in battle were brought to the pyramids, where they were ceremoniously stabbed to death. Their hearts were removed still beating, and their remains were eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he said pleasantly.

  After returning to Mexico City, Señorita Forrest had gone out dancing Friday and Saturday nights. It was very late Saturday night, June 8—technically, it was Sunday morning— when Don Emilio gave the order by phone from his ranch in San Miguel de Allende. “Llevarla al almacén.” Take her to the warehouse.

  On the books, the warehouse owned by Televisa Azteca on the northern outskirts of the city housed outdated broadcasting equipment. In reality, most of the warehouse was empty and served darker purposes.

  The grab happened effortlessly. Mickie had just emerged from Club Ocho and gotten into a taxi waiting at the curb. Before the driver could leave, El Ladrillo pulled his black SUV in front of the green Vocho. A second black SUV pulled behind, boxing the VW Beetle in between the two cars. El Ladrillo jumped out of his vehicle; two men in the other SUV did the same. All of them were armed with guns and clubs. Everything happened quickly, in no more than a few minutes.

  One man smashed the windshield of the taxi. The cabbie pushed open his door and fled for his life, sprinting up the street. At the same moment, the second man brought the butt of his pistol down on Mickie’s head. Mickie screamed as a hood was pulled over her face. Duct tape was ripped from a roll; in the next second, Mickie’s wrists and ankles were bound as she was pushed into the trunk of the car in front.

  At the warehouse, El Ladrillo left her in a wooden chair with her arms tied behind her back, her mouth duct-taped shut, and a blindfold over her eyes. It was late afternoon Sunday when Don Emilio arrived. Setting another straight-back chair in front of his captive, El Padrino unbuttoned the coat of his Armani fresco wool suit and sat, crossing one ankle over his knee. After dusting off a bit of lint from his trousers, he pulled a folded newspaper article from an inside pocket of his jacket. Putting on round reading glasses—also pulled from his coat—he read aloud:

  “The FBI has increased the reward being offered for information leading to the arrest of Michelle Forrest to $100,000. Forrest is the Brink’s guard who vanished with $7.5 million on May 31 after a routine pickup at the San Francisco International Airport. FBI agents have canvassed the Haight district, interviewed co-workers, acquaintances, and Denise Holland, a friend. The FBI believes Forrest may be hiding out in Mexico City.”

  He folded the newspaper neatly and returned it and the eyeglasses to his pocket.

  “Do you know why you’re here, Señorita Forrest?”

  Mickie shook her head. Her mouth was still covered with tape and her eyes with a long strip of black cloth.

  “Quitar esos, por favor,” Don Emilio told his lieutenant, who removed them, ripping off the tape and pulling off the blindfold. Mickie blinked against the harsh, fluorescent lights overhead.

  “Water,” she croaked.

  “Yes,” Don Emilio said, and then to El Ladrillo, “Traiga una taza de agua al señorita Forrest, por favor.”

  Leaning back, Don Emilio folded his hands across his lap. El Ladrillo returned with a chipped white coffee cup filled with tap water.

  “Tomaré eso,” Don Emilio said. I’ll take that.

  Standing, he brought the cup to Mickie’s lips. Water flowed into her mouth but also down her chin and onto her sweat-soaked silk shirt. From where he stood over her, Don Emilio could see the top of her head, the blond hair matted with blood. When the cup was empty, he sat again in his chair, setting the cup on the concrete floor.

  “I need my meds,” Mickie said. “I’m epileptic. I need to take my meds.”

  Don Emilio ignored this plea. Leaning forward, he repeated his question. “Do you know why you are here, Señorita Forrest?”

  “I don’t have it,” Mickie said. “The money. If that’s what you’re after, I don’t have it.”

  “Yes, the money. You think I want your money.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Don Emilio moved closer and looked directly into Mickie’s eyes. “Some would say what you did was an act of war.”

  Mickie blinked at him incomprehensively. “What? Because I stole money from the Fed?”

  “No. You did not declare war against your own government. You declared war against La Familia.”

  Mickie looked bewildered. Speaking slowly, Don Emilio explained. “My children’s friends are my friends, and if you try to have my friends killed, well, I consider that a declaration of war.”

  Don Emilio watched as Mickie’s blue gaze darted up and down.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickie said.

  Don Emilio considered her. “No?”

  “No.”

  “Señorita Bundy is a friend of my daughter. And your friend Señorita Holland tried to have her killed,” Don Emilio explained patiently.

  “What?”

  “Yes. You did not know?”

  “No, I did not know that. I didn’t know.”

  Don Emilio smiled. “Ah. I believe you, Señorita Forrest. Women can be very deceptive. And still, we want to believe them.”

  “Ah, shit,” Mickie said.

  Don Emilio’s lips curled in a barely discernible smile. “I do not want a war with you, Señorita Forrest. But I cannot allow my friends to be threatened, even if it was not on your order. So, what am I to do? You can see my predicament, I am sure.”

  Mickie’s eyes began flitting again. “But it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”

  Don Emilio disregarded this protest. “Do I kill you?” he asked and shrugged.

  “No, no. It wasn’t me. It was Denise. Elizabeth is my foster sister. Mi hermana. You guys are into family, right? She’s my family. My sister. I wouldn’t want to kill her.”

  Now Don Emilio smiled broadly. “You guys are into family. You amuse me, Señorita Forrest.”

  “Listen, maybe I can buy my way out of this. I can tell you where the money is. I don’t know how much of it is left, but it’s a lot. More than seven million dollars. I didn’t spend much of it.”

  “I see. And where might this money be hiding?”

  “You have to promise not to kill me if I tell you.”

  “I do not believe you are in a position to negotiate. I will kill you if it pleases me.”

  Mickie lowered her head. Don Emilio thought she might cry.

  “I’m so sorry. I just want to go home.”

  Don Emilio leaned in farther and lifted Mickie’s chin with one hand.

  “I do not believe that women are the weaker sex,” he said. “Actuá como un hombre.” Act like a man. “Si necesisitas un par de cojones, tal vez Señorita Holland te presete la suya.” If you need a pair of balls, perhaps Señorita Holland can lend you hers.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  By the night’s end, they had agreed on terms. Mickie would show Don Emilio where the money was hidden in a locker in San Ysidro. In exchange, she would be let go on American soil
. The odds were that meant getting caught and going to prison, but Mickie was thinking that prison was looking better than the death sentence that was waiting for her here in Mexico.

  On Don Emilio’s private jet, Mickie flew out in style, accompanied by another lieutenant and two enforcers. Don Emilio stayed behind in Mexico. The four of them arrived at the Tijuana Airport where Don Emilio kept a private hangar. A black SUV was waiting. Mickie sat silently in the backseat, sandwiched between the two enforcers. At the border checkpoint, the car slowed.

  “Carrill seis,” the lieutenant in the passenger seat instructed the driver. Lane six. “Es uno de los nuestros.” He’s one of ours. And he was. They were waved through by a U.S. Customs Border Patrol agent in a bulletproof vest.

  On San Ysidro Boulevard, they found Fail Safe Storage. The office was closed. The lot was empty and dark, lit by evenly spaced light poles, half of which were not working. They drove to the aluminum barrier arm that was meant to prevent access to the fenced-in grounds.

  “Give me the card,” the lieutenant told Mickie.

  “I don’t have it,” Mickie replied. “Denise has it.”

  The lieutenant nodded at one of the enforcers, who left the backseat and went to the trunk. A minute later, he was standing at the barrier arm with a socket wrench, removing bolts. In another moment, he had unfastened the arm and was setting it on the side of the drive. He returned the tool to the trunk, got back into the SUV, and they drove forward.

  “It’s locker 185,” Mickie said.

  She was trying to remember her high school Spanish. Everybody growing up in LA studied Spanish. She was wishing now that she had paid more attention. “Ciento ocho cinco.” They found it. The lieutenant was the first at the lock.

  “Open it,” he told Mickie.

  Mickie went to the disc lock and dialed. The combination was Denise’s birthday. Valentine’s Day: 02-14. And the year of her birth: 1996 minus 21. Nineteen seventy-five. Mickie dialed and pulled, and the padlock clicked open. She yanked it off. The lieutenant nodded at the enforcers, who bent and lifted the blue door.

  Mickie felt as if a Teotihuacano had just ripped out her heart when she saw what was inside. Nothing. It was empty.

  In June 1996, a total of 83,759 people disappeared in the U.S. without a trace. Michelle Forrest was one of them.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Denise woke up alone, again. She tried to remember the last time she had felt a warm body next to her in bed. That would have been Mickie, waking up together on the day of the job. Friday, May 31. Jesus, Denise hadn’t had sex in fourteen days. Two weeks! That was a record. A personal best. Nah, a personal worst.

  In the days leading up to the heist, Mickie had been too nervous for sex, and Denise had gone without. She would need to find a lover soon. Her body was demanding attention. Denise was a very sexual person; everyone she’d ever slept with had told her so, and she believed them. She climaxed easily and loved everything about sex. Even the first few awkward times with boys, even those had felt good. But with girls, well, that was like comparing the Fourth of July to Groundhog Day. When she and Shelly had started practice-kissing, Denise was amazed at how different it felt. Kissing a girl was sweet, tender, soft. Boys were rough, panting and dry humping like dogs. Denise knew right then at that moment, at that first kiss with a girl, what she wanted.

  Now she let her hand slide between her legs. She closed her eyes and imagined Mickie. No, Lizbeth. No, both of them there with her on the cool sheets, Mickie’s big hands spreading her thighs wide, Elizabeth kissing her mouth. Butch and femme, male and female, yang and yin and yin flowing together into one body-shaking orgasm. Denise moaned and came.

  Denise put on her jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers and went downstairs. It was still early by Nash standards, especially for a Sunday morning. The wall clock told her it was 1:00 p.m. Mickie would be expecting her call. She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket, put a quarter in the phone, and dialed the toll-free number to the Hotel Rosa.

  “Hello? Yeah, room 805, please.”

  She waited while she was connected. She heard the ringing, and when it went unanswered, the pleasant female voice came back on the line.

  “The guest is not picking up. Do you wish to leave a message?”

  “No. I’ll try again later.”

  She hung up. She hadn’t heard from Ziggy, but then she didn’t really expect to. In the last phone conversation she’d had with him, he had said he’d call her when he got word from Mexico.

  Maybe it was a good sign that Mickie wasn’t in her room at the Hotel Rosa. Maybe Ziggy’s hit woman had done her job.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Wednesday morning while she waited for Gabriella, Elizabeth read the English-language News Flash that Olivia had ordered delivered daily for her. Today’s lead story reported yet another murder in Mexico.

  “A Mexican journalist was shot dead Sunday morning as he left his home in Neza, ten miles southeast of Mexico City. Juan Palacio, a crime reporter for La Palabra, is the fifth journalist killed this year in Mexico, one of the deadliest countries in the world for journalists.

  “Carlos Martín, managing editor of La Palabra, said mass media companies like Televisa Azteca feature mostly ‘innocuous interviews with prominent politicians, reheated press releases, and weather dolls.’ In contrast, La Palabra hires young investigative reporters who delve into dangerous subjects like the government’s relationship with the drug cartels.

  “‘Powerful figures, unaccustomed to scrutiny, have lashed out violently,’ Martín said. Authorities have not named a suspect or motive in Palacio’s death.”

  During her lesson, Elizabeth was still thinking about the news story.

  “¿Puedo preguntaro algo?” Can I ask you something?

  “Claro que si.” By all means.

  “¿Cómo vive con violencia en México?” Elizabeth asked. How can you live with so much violence in Mexico?

  “Qué quiere decir? Estados Unidos es más violento que México.” What do you mean? The U.S. is more violent than Mexico.

  “No creo que es verdad.” I don’t think that’s true.

  “Mira su historia. Su imperialismo. Su presidente James Polk y su Destino Manifesto y su guerra de agresión para robar tierras mexicanas. Lea su historia de California y Nuevo México y Texas.”

  “Can we talk in English about this?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes. For a moment.”

  “I don’t mean the history of American imperialism and how the U.S. provoked Mexico into a war. I don’t mean our history, President Polk and Manifest Destiny, and stealing land from the Mexicans. I mean the day-to-day violence here. The drug traffickers, the murders—”

  “Yes, and what is the root cause of drug trafficking, please? It is your country, your America.”

  “All right, even if you want to argue that, it doesn’t change the end result. There is still more violence in Mexico than in the U.S.,” Elizabeth asserted.

  “Look at your statistics. That is statistically false. There are fewer rapes reported in Mexico than in the U.S.”

  “Even if that’s true—”

  “It is true, if you believe the United Nations.”

  Elizabeth had become a student again, deconstructing a topic the way she had in graduate school.

  “I think the operative word here is ‘reported.’ Women in Mexico probably don’t report rape because of the social stigma attached to being a victim of sexual violence,” Elizabeth said.

  “I believe that is correct.”

  “The United States is violent, I agree that’s true. But Mexico is more violent.”

  “That is debatable,” Gabriella argued.

  “All right, let’s not debate it. But back to my question, how do you live with this violence?”

  Gabriella pulled a pack of Boots out of her messenger bag, knocked out a cigarette, and lit up. She inhaled deeply and blew out gray smoke.

  “Have you read Octavio Paz?”


  “No.”

  “Read The Labryinth of Solitude. Mexicans accept death and violence in a way that Anglos do not. Anglos try to hide death away. Mexicans honor death. We have our saint, Santa Muerta, Our Lady of Holy Death. Our attitude is, death is present everywhere, and you can’t escape it. So, be humble because in the end, we will all meet the same fate.”

  “I can appreciate that.”

  “Octavio Paz said, ‘North Americans consider the world to be something that can be perfected. We consider it something that can be redeemed.’”

  “That’s a deep insight,” Elizabeth said. “Octavio Paz, I’ll have to read him. So, Americans—”

  “North Americans.”

  “So, North Americans believe in progress. Mexicans believe in redemption. That’s probably because you’re a Catholic nation,” Elizabeth said.

  “It is not solely because of our Catholicism. Yes, there is redemption in the theological sense. But redemption has a secular meaning. Is that not the basis of your prison system? The United States imprisons more of its people than any other country in the world. You say you do that to—what is the word?”

  Gabriella frowned in thought.

  “Rehabilitate?” Elizabeth suggested.

  “Yes, to rehabilitate them. Your people commit a crime and are sent to prison to be rehabilitated, to be changed for the better, and when they are released, they are free again to become part of society. They pay by losing their freedom, and when the debt is paid, they are released. That is redemption.”

  “Then let me ask you something else,” Elizabeth said. “For someone who has been violent, who has killed, do you think that person can change?”

  “What a stupid question. Of course that person can change. People change every day. Life is change.”

  “I know, but what I mean is change the way they live their lives, how they respond to their circumstances. Can they ever really change?”