The Jaguar

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “You shouldn’t rip off the artists you love so much.”

  He eyed her. The lugubrious expression returned immediately. “Business always must be first.”

  “Make it second and you’ll be happier.”

  “I will be happy?”

  She shrugged and looked out at the gorgeous Yamaha shining in the studio lights. “It’s possible that was a stupid thing to say.”

  “Do you know how many people are trying to kill me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Thousands.”

  “Truly?”

  “Very truly. There are soldiers and police and hired assassins and enemies and even mere boys who would kill me without one thought. There are people who would kill me just to have a corrido written about it. Yet this is all a part of business. So, as you see, it must come first or I will die. You must comprehend that your world is not my world.”

  “You’re right, Señor Armenta, this is not my world. And you’re also right about Flaco Jimenez. He’s one robust accordion player.”

  “Yes. Music. I will tell you about my son someday.”

  “He frightens me.”

  “Not Saturnino. Gustavo. I will tell you about Gustavo. He was the beautiful one.”

  Up on the fourth floor she recognized her hallway and room door. This level spread out logically at right angles, all hallways and guest rooms, like a hotel. Some of the doors were open and Erin saw that the rooms were beautifully furnished and decorated, like hers. Some were closed. They came to seating alcoves with high windows and heavy rancho sofas in leather and cowhide and grand recliners arranged around rustic trunks piled with books and periodicals. Monkeys peered down on them from the curtain rods. Parrots and macaws lined the landing rail and the banister that zigzagged down four floors as Erin looked over. A black man wearing white pants and a white shirt used a step ladder to remove various excretions from the drapery. The bucket on the floor beside him gave up the smell of lavender and Erin saw that a portion of the tile pavers was clean and still wet from the mop.

  “In the daylight there are excellent views from these windows. You can see the ruins and the laguna.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be free to enjoy views.”

  He regarded her with a mild shrug. “No. This would not be practical.”

  The top floor—Erin was fairly sure it was floor five—housed an observatory, a home theater the size of a multiplex, a recital hall, and a game room with billiards, table tennis, Foosball, scores of arcade games from “Cabela’s Big Game Hunter” to “Daytona Challenge” to “Kandahar Killers.” Father Edgar Ciel sat cramped but splendidly upright in the Daytona car, hands clutching the wheel, blazing his way through the competition while the novitiates watched on.

  Back in the elevator Armenta pressed the second button from the top, which let them out on the second story, where they had seen the recording studio.

  “The buttons and floors don’t match,” she said. “They are driving me crazy.”

  “Driving? As a car?”

  “Making me crazy. I mean, how many floors does this place have, anyway?”

  Armenta looked at her as if he didn’t understand, then let Erin into a gallery. It was spacious and well lit by a network of halogen mini-bulbs. The floor was bird’s-eye maple and the walls were white plaster. They were hung with paintings and there were dozens of marble floor pedestals for sculpture from the Americas, some of it pre-Columbian and some of it contemporary. A man with a large black weapon stood in one corner, feet apart, arms cradling the gun.

  “These are only a small part.”

  “Of what?”

  “My accomplishments.”

  Armenta once again turned his back on her to talk into his phone. This time he spoke longer. His voice rose in volume and he cursed happily. In the corner the sicario uncradled his gun, lay a finger against the trigger guard and pointed the muzzle to the floor.

  Suddenly, Saturnino burst into the gallery. His white Guayabera was drenched in sweat and streaked with blood and his eyes were wild with what looked like glee. There was a gun jammed into the waist of his jeans. He marched right up to Erin but stopped short and orbited her one full rotation, as in a dance, facing her and smiling wild-eyed. “You will be enjoying this!” While looking at her lips he kissed the air and spun off and loped over to his father who stood waiting, the phone still in his hand.

  “Felix, papa!”

  “Felix, el reportero?” asked Armenta.

  “Sí, Padre. Felix! El reportero! El traidor!”

  Now the zoo was filled with people. Marimba music came from big speakers hung from the walls and sitting on the cobblestones. Erin was wedged in hard between Armenta on her left and Saturnino on her right. Heriberto stood in front of her. She saw the other gunmen who had kidnapped her and beaten Bradley, and the gentle boy who had served her dinner and poured her wine. There were soldiers and uniformed police and scores of what had to be cartel henchmen, a dozen of the elegant black domestic staff both men and women, and there were Mayans who must have come from the villages nearby. A group of four women and four men stood apart from the others. The women were dressed in white dresses and their heads were covered with the white rebozos, as the women Erin had seen coming from the third floor. The men were dressed in white also, long-sleeved shirts untucked and baggy pants, and their heads were covered not by rebozos but by loose white balaclavas that appeared to be made of a light material. Some of the men and women wore white cloth gloves.

  In a row of seats up close to the cages sat the elders, some Indian and some Mexican and others indeterminate. To their left a man screwed a small video recorder to a tripod. Someone turned off the marimba and now a ranchero song blasted from the speakers. The music was festive and loose with up-tempo accordions and guitars strummed on the back-beat and powerful tenors in harmony. She looked through the bars of the cages but saw no cats. The grates were all down and she suspected that the animals were lost to their runs. All this commotion would certainly send them running. No monkeys or sloth or coatimundi. The compound yard was filled with vehicles. The pigeons in the aviary flapped and flitted and cocked their heads toward the ruckus.

  Then she saw a beautiful woman making her way through the crowd toward them. She wore a peach-colored dress that was both modest and flattering. Her hair was dark and lustrous. It took Erin a moment to recognize her but when the woman was within ten feet she knew for certain it was Owens Finnegan. It was jarring to see Owens so far from her context of California, but somehow, Erin thought, in some inexplicable way, she fit right in here.

  Owens smiled at Benjamin Armenta, then came to him, and when they embraced, Owens looked over his shoulder into Erin’s eyes and raised a finger to her own red lips. Her wide sterling silver bracelets slid away and Erin saw the ropy scars that ringed her wrists. They unnerved her as they always had. Then Owens disengaged from Armenta, pecked him on the cheek, glanced at Erin, then settled on the other side of him. Erin watched him put a stout arm around her, lightly and with affection.

  Mike Finnegan’s “daughter,” Erin thought. The Finnegans. Vague, pointless people, in her opinion. They had materialized at one of their Los Angeles gigs one winter, listened to a set, then occasionally shown up to see her perform, club to club, ever since. Friendly enough, maybe too friendly. They always bought the drinks. She could tell their true interest was in Bradley and she distrusted them. Charlie Hood was searching the world for Mike, Erin knew, although she didn’t really know why. Or why Charlie was having such trouble finding him. Mike was always turning up, with his laughter-red face and lively blue eyes and his flagrant nosiness about all things.

  Saturnino’s face leaned near. “Strong men need beautiful women, like her,” he said just loud enough that she could hear him over the music. “To keep us strong. And generous. And filled with love.”

  “You’re quite a philosopher, Saturnino.”

  “You are this beautiful to me. I will be gentle with you.” He smiled
and raised his hand toward her but stopped short, brushing his fingers in the air as if along the contours of her face. She felt revulsion and she saw the enjoyment of it in his smile. “Very gentle.”

  “Don’t try it until after you’ve shot me.”

  “I hear this many times. Maybe I will not be gentle.”

  “I’d still rather die.”

  “I admire your pride and your courage. I will take them from you.”

  Saturnino turned to face the cages and Erin saw the black iron grates rise from the cat runs. Like a prison, she thought, everything automatic. Cheers went up from the crowd. Seconds later the cats appeared behind the grates. Erin wondered if they were drawn by the sound of the grates clanging up, or by the crowd. More cheers. Why would wild animals come close to all this noise? But the twelve predators paced in the half-light beyond the grates. A tiger snarled at a lioness and the lioness snapped back, her teeth flashing like yellow knives and ringing off the steel bars of the run.

  Two cartel gunmen led a man through the crowd. He wore dirty trousers and a torn shirt and a necktie. His face was swollen and bloody. The reporter, thought Erin: the traitor.

  The prison-bar door of the leopard cage rolled open. Erin heard the squeal of it through the beats of the ranchero song. A wave of nausea broke over her and her knees froze as she watched them push the man inside and knock him to the ground. They hovered over him until the door had almost closed then they scrambled, laughing, and squeezed out of the cage. The man struggled upright and faced the leopards waiting on the other side of the grate. The ranchero music blared and the crowd jeered him and the videographer made an adjustment to his little camera.

  Erin rammed an elbow into Armenta’s arm. “You can’t do this!”

  He looked at her with a forlorn expression and she tried to ram him again but Armenta caught her elbow in a powerful hand that held her fast. “He is a reporter and a traitor. He writes about me in his newspaper. He tells lies because the Zetas threaten him. The newspaper reporter blames me for the heads in Monterey but these are done by the Zetas. I forgive him. The reporter blames me for the dead police in Guadalajara but these man are hanged by Zetas. From the bridge. I forgive again. He blames me for Gustavo. My own Gustavo. He blames his death, not on the Americans but on me. Enough. This is the highest disrespect. The newspaper writer is very bad for my reputation and my business. He heats the plaza. I will pay for my own crimes, but not the crimes of others. This writer is now mine and he will write no more words against me or my family.”

  Armenta dropped her elbow and took a step forward, raising his hand into the air and snapping his fingers. Erin saw Owens looking at her, an unreadable expression on her face.

  Then the grate began to retract into the concrete floor and when it was low enough the male leopard launched himself onto the reporter. He screamed and lashed out with his fists but the cat closed its mouth over his face and the scream echoed thickly. The man collapsed onto his back and the leopard raked open his stomach with its hind claws as the female crushed his groin in her jaws and together they carried him out of the cage and past the grate and into the jungle beyond. In their grasp the reporter appeared to weigh little more than the clothes he wore and yet he struggled as he vanished into the darkness.

  Erin fainted and was caught by Owens.

  9

  HOOD SAT IN HIS EXPEDITION in the parking lot of the Jai Alai palace in Tijuana. The air was hot and smoggy and smelled of exhaust and burning trash. In the asphalt divots stood rainwater from the summer storm.

  He looked out at the stately old neoclassical building and remembered coming here with his family for the jai alai games, which his mother in particular had enjoyed. They had made modest bets and cheered loudly and Hood still remembered the resounding smack of the hard, heavy ball rocketing off the walls of the court.

  Now the games were gone and the palace was used for concerts and shows. A sign announced the upcoming events: Lila Downs, a farmer’s market, the Exxxpo Erotica.

  The prepaid phone rang at three o’clock. Hood flipped it open and said nothing.

  “Drive toward Revolucion. Park far in the lot where there are no cars. Stay in your vehicle with your hands on the steering wheel. The hands must be on it.”

  Hood drove far into the mostly empty parking lot and took a parking place in the open. A moment later two Tijuana police cars swung in from opposite directions and stopped on either side of him. No sirens, no lights. Hood kept his hands on the wheel. Two more prowl cars came in and blocked him front and back. One uniformed officer got out of the passenger seat of each car but the drivers stayed.

  Through his side window Hood watched a stocky man approach and wave him from the car. The officer’s hand rested on the grip of his sidearm, a large revolver. He wore sunglasses and his forehead was beaded with sweat. His nameplate said “Sgt. I. Rescendez” and his badge and uniform looked authentic.

  Hood nodded and opened the door and got out. Rescendez pointed him toward his own vehicle, then reached over and hit the unlock bar of Hood’s Expedition. Hood heard the liftgate pop open, then the faint pneumatic hiss of the door risers and the sound of the suitcase bumping on the rear floor. The zipper whined three times. The back seats blocked most of his view but over the headrests Hood saw three men looking down into the rolling case. Two wore the peaked hats of municipal officers and Hood thought that if they were impersonating cops they’d done a good enough job of it. The alternative was even worse.

  One of the men said something and the other two laughed. Hood could hear them rummaging through the bundles for dye packs and transmitters. A mumbled comment, and a moment later the zipper sounded three more times and the liftgate thumped down. The men returned to their cars.

  “Give me the phone,” said Rescendez.

  Hood pulled the phone from his pocket and surrendered it. The cop handed him another one, a different make and model, a car charger wrapped tightly around it.

  “You are loitering in a public place,” Rescendez. “This is a fine of two hundred dollars. You can pay now or appear in court.”

  “At least I know you’re real TJ cops,” said Hood.

  The man laughed quietly, then pulled a satellite phone off his duty belt. He powered it up and dialed and handed it to Hood. Hood stepped away from Rescendez, listening to the ring.

  A man answered and Hood identified himself as Charlie Bravo.

  Erin’s voice was clear and fearful. “Bradley?”

  “Erin, it’s me.”

  “Oh, God, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “They haven’t hurt me.”

  “You’re going to be okay. I’m bringing the money.”

  “Please do it soon.”

  “I’ll be there, Erin.”

  “Soon, please soon. I’m being strong but—”

  The phone went silent. Hood tossed it back to Rescendez, who caught it in one hand like a first baseman.

  “You are familiar to me, Mr. Bravo.”

  “I have a common face.”

  “But where have I seen you?”

  “I’ve never seen you.”

  “Were you in Mulege?”

  “Never.”

  Rescendez laughed heartily and slapped Hood on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Maybe your face is very, very common. As you say. Now, please, the two hundred dollars fine is due to be paid.”

  Hood fixed him with a calm and durable look. “You’ve fucked with me enough, señor.”

  “Sí. Es verdad. Now you will take the money to Ciudad Juarez.”

  A city steeped in blood, thought Hood.

  “It is thirteen hours with no flat tires,” said Rescendez. “That is driving on the U.S. side, of course. You have two days to make the drive. You will stay at the Lucerna. And you will be guarding Benjamin’s money very well.”

  “I understand,” said Hood. “Now, you wait here, please.” Hood climbed into his vehicle and fetched one of the small M
ike Finnegan photo albums from the console. The empty booklet had been complimentary and the cover image was a festive holiday ribbon now out of season. But each page was made of slotted clear plastic and each photograph was well displayed and protected. He brought it to the cop and opened the cover and handed it to him. The plastic pages caught the sunlight and Hood watched I. Rescendez flip through the six photographs, then shrug and hand it back.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t know this man. Who is he and what has he done?”

  “He’s a bad man.”

  “The world has many.”

  “Keep the book. Show the pictures to the men you work with. Your neighbors and friends. Call me if anyone knows of him or sees him. A thousand dollars for any good lead. My numbers are on the back.”