by C. S. 96
Sylvia lost her smile. She said, “Well, considering we reached out to you, maybe why not let us tell you why we had Estefan search you out.”
I nodded my head. “Of course.”
Sylvia directed the conversation. It seemed true that she was the matriarch of this organization. She certainly had the courage and silver tongue for it. “We know who you are and what your organization here in America is capable of,” she said. “We also know you’re involved with the Beltrán brothers,” she paused for a second, “who our connection in Mexico sometimes doesn’t see eye to eye with, and that’s why we are reaching out to you to see if that might be a problem.”
I clasped my hands on the table as if to mull this over. I said that whether I could work with them would depend on what type of business arrangement they were talking about. “Though I have to say I’ve heard very good things about you,” I added. “Otherwise I would not be sitting here with you.”
Sylvia asked, “And what did this due diligence tell you?”
“Your son-in-law, Savior, was arrested in what appeared to be a sting operation led by the DEA. I learned that your clients—”
“Someone gave him up,” Joaquin cut me off. He was almost standing out of his chair. “Someone in a rival organization. Someone we will visit soon.”
My blood ran cold. Was I here because they were fishing for information? Had Estefan used Raul to get me inside this fortress? This looked like a much more dangerous situation than a first meet of buyers in which I said they’d never kill me.
“All due respect,” I said, my voice as firm as I could muster, “but are you suggesting that me or any of my people have anything to do with Savior’s arrest?”
Joaquin answered back quickly, angering even further. “I’m not suggesting that, I’m making a statement. Someone rolled over to the cops on him, but I can assure you if we did think you had something to do with it, you would not be sitting here enjoying our hospitality.”
Now Robbie, who had previously been enjoying the soccer game, rested his hands on the table. It was his turn to speak. “Roman, we do not know how the police got to him, but they did. It was highly unusual, because as tight as your organization is, I can assure you ours is just as tight. So no. That is not the reason you are here. You are here because we cannot trust anyone. And though we have never met you or your partners, Tony and Hector, we do know a lot about you personally. We know that you’ve been in business with the brothers for many years and other than the occasional seizure, which unfortunately is a hazard we all have to endure, you’ve escaped incarceration for many years. And the drivers who have been arrested, as far as we can tell, have been taken care of financially and have not spoken to the police. To us that means loyalty and good business acumen.”
Impossible as it seemed, they did not know about Tony’s arrest. But they could learn about it any day. I had to make this deal happen as quickly as possible.
“So what can I do for you?” I asked.
Sylvia was about to step in when Miguel cleared his throat and held up a hand to speak. He spoke just above a whisper, so low, in fact, I had to lean in to hear him clearly. He said, “We’re not sure yet. But as you can imagine we can’t trust anyone in our organization, nor can we trust any of our clients because someone gave up my son to the police.”
Joaquin clapped his hands loudly like they were going to hit something if he didn’t put them to work. “This is all fucking bullshit,” he said. “No one in our fucking organization gave us up. It was a competitor.” When he said the word “competitor” he unconsciously gestured toward me with a hand. Here was the real Joaquin.
I took the expensive dinner napkin off my lap, tossed it onto the table, and stood up as if I was about to tell my hosts that the meeting was over. In a black market trade in which it’s protocol to defend yourself against such an accusatory statement, it was the only move I had.
Miguel slammed a large hand down on the table. Everyone in the room, me included, froze. Joaquin sat back in his chair, red-faced, and listened.
Calmly, Miguel asked me to please excuse the little tantrum. “We’re not here to make stupid accusations,” he added.
I shot Joaquin a look of piss and vinegar.
So why were we here? Miguel told me that they had excess material. They knew I was already set up with the brothers, but perhaps we could work out a better deal, one that remained between all of us at the table.
The irony of the situation was one you just couldn’t make up. They were in the exact same position as Tony and Hector just a few weeks before—consigned a lot of cocaine that they had to sell because they couldn’t trust anyone, not their clients and no one in their organization. All of us lived in the same maze of deception.
You see, once the cartel hands you material, whether it’s a gram bag or a ton of cocaine, it’s yours, you now own it, and you have a certain number of days to pay for it. If you don’t get them their money on the agreed day, there are no negotiations—someone dies. Another week without paying—someone else dies. And so on and so on until the note is paid in full or the entirety of the organization and their family members are completely eradicated.
These are hard and fast rules and they’re in place to keep order. Losing the note on a ton of cocaine is meaningless to the padrinos of the cartels, so if a whole organization of dealers is wiped out and the padrinos don’t get their money back they won’t shed any tears. The lesson all the other dealers learn from that bloodletting is worth a hell of a lot more than the loss in paper. Everyone understands the rules, and everyone abides by the rules—unless of course you find yourself in the unenviable position of Miguel, sitting on a lot of cocaine and needing a guy like me who he could trust.
Now there were many other organizations out there, but I was certain they came to me because of our reputation of being fair and, above all else, honest. We could be trusted. But then again there was too much money and lives at stake so they had to be 100 percent sure I was the man they could trust, essentially with the lives of every soul inside that room. Because if I decided to take their gack and run, especially in light of the knowledge I now had—if they couldn’t sell the material, there would be no retribution against me or my family members—they’d all be dead.
The teenager came down from upstairs and reported that Raul had gone home on the bus. I was relieved that it seemed he hadn’t caused any stir, and that now the risk of that was gone.
“What kind of deal are we talking?” I said.
Miguel had done his homework. “You’re paying roughly seventeen thousand per brick from the brothers. If this all works out, and you buy from us in volume, we’re willing to give you every brick for fifteen and we’re willing to give it to you on consignment, which shows our level of trust.”
It was a very generous offer. “When you say volume, what are we talking?” I asked.
He returned the answer quickly. Fifty keys and up every week would be fifteen thousand a kilo. Any orders smaller than that would be sixteen thousand a brick. “We both know you’re not going to get a better deal than that… anywhere.”
I nodded my head again, pretending to think over the economics. The breezy way that we were ignoring—or pretending to ignore—the bloodshed this deal would set into motion reminded me of all the pain I’d caused while working in the drug trade and why we so badly needed “narcs” like my new colleagues fighting drug violence across the nation. The bloody fallout of a deal like this would be inevitable because if I were truly going to change Tony’s and my relationship with the Beltráns, they would find out why. Every person in the room continued to eat their dinner knowing that bodies might pile up on both sides of the Rio Grande because of what we were doing here.
I counted to ten seconds, then said, “Those numbers are very generous and the brothers could never match them. And I’m pretty certain my partners are going to feel the same way. But I’m sure you understand that this is a very delicate situation.”
Mi
guel countered, “This is a very competitive business. People on our end of the business are always looking for cheaper product. It’s a very,” he paused to find the right word in English, “transient business. Organizations always moving from one cousin to the next. You don’t actually think they’d risk going to war here in the United States over losing one distributor, do you?”
He seemed to be a convincing liar. If he didn’t think the Beltráns would kill to keep us—or in retribution for losing us—he had no idea how much Tony and I had been pushing.
Fortunately, none of that mattered. Miguel had just solved the conundrum I was faced with, and if he was stupid enough to believe his lie, or think that I was stupid enough to believe it, who was I to challenge him?
I smiled and said, “I need to talk with my partners first. How much time do you need before I give you an answer?”
Miguel stared at me long and hard. I suddenly felt all eyes on me. Did I miss something? Answer too quickly?
Miguel broke his odd stare and nodded his head. He then looked at Sylvia, who tilted her head. There were so many possible meanings to that simple head tilt—she didn’t trust me or she thought it was a bad idea or what did they have to lose?
Miguel said he’d get back to me on the date. He stood up slowly, indicating the meeting was over. We shook hands. Then I shook hands with the rest of the family.
Before I turned to walk out I noticed Lourdes, the beautiful woman from the front yard, staring at me, this time not looking away. She looked like she was in despair. I felt even sadder for her, and even worse for her little boy.
That night I got a call from Raul, his voice shaking wildly. “Something happened,” he said.
“Did you say anything to Estefan that might jeopardize the meeting? What’d you tell the kid?”
“No, no. I was only in there with him for a few minutes before it happened and I left. I got a little bored and told the kid I needed to take a pee. He pointed to a bathroom down the hall, near the dining room you were all sitting at.” He hesitated.
I was starting to get impatient. “What’s the problem, Raul? Talk to me.”
He snapped back at me, a first. “Give me a second, man.” I could hear him breathing.
“Did you see the tattoo,” he said, “on that tight-faced lady’s neck, the right side?”
I thought about the question. “I was to her left side during dinner,” I said, “and her hair—no, a scarf—was covering her neck.”
“Well, I didn’t see no scarf, Roman. No, man, there were two of them both joined together, which is not good. One was the Queen of Hearts.”
I was confused. “So she likes to play cards, or she sees herself as some love queen?”
“Don’t you know what that represents? That’s the brand of the Fuentes Cartel.”
He was right—every cartel had a brand to let buyers know where it came from—but that didn’t freak me out.
“Well, yeah, we knew she was dealing with Fuentes. They pretty much told me so inside.”
That’s when Raul reminded me that not just anyone can get that tattoo—only blood-related Fuentes family members, the shot callers and killers for the organization.
I considered this piece of information he’d suddenly dropped in my lap. Sylvia was more than just a dealer, and they were more than a mere distribution arm of the Fuentes clan.
“That’s not all,” Raul said.
“What’d she have a swastika tattoo on her left tit?”
“Worse,” he said, “she also had a tattoo joined to the Queen of Hearts. La Santa Muerte, mother of death. You know, the skeleton in the black robe wearing a crown of roses.”
I’d heard of the Mexican drug gangs giving homage to the Priestess of Death. She was an icon based in black magic and Santeria whom they prayed to and offered money and even human sacrifices in exchange for a clean hit or safe passage.
Raul said, “That means she’s a practicer, she’s the priestess of death… You know, I don’t know if I want to be involved with these people.”
If he would truly step aside and I could stop worrying about him getting in the way, it’d be a big break for the case.
I told him that if he was worried over this he didn’t need to do anything. He had set this up, so if I made a deal with them I’d break a piece off the profits for him.
“That’s fine,” he said, but his voice still sounded shaky.
I had trouble falling asleep that night, but for the first time in months it wasn’t because of worry; it was because of excitement. If I could swing a deal with this family, buying small loads at first, fifty keys a week, and after gaining their trust hit them up for one big score, I would finally have my ticket to a more fulfilling life, protected by the police. Not only would I be out from under my trafficking charge, I would have proven that if given the opportunity, I could be the CI trusted to take down the most embedded operators and bring in the biggest hauls along the way.
The Setup
I arrived at Ramona at nine, an hour earlier than we’d agreed, and as usual everyone was already there. I couldn’t wait to tell them about the opportunity we had to get straight to the head of the Fuentes Cartel. It was something they’d never accomplish otherwise, not without an unknowing source. To get an unknowing source like I had in Sylvia, one who worked directly with the Fuentes and a blood relative to boot, was a once-in-a-very-lucky-lifetime feat.
I walked into the office trailer and these agents were buried in their typical mounds of paper. I wondered how many other mes they were working with simultaneously. After the meeting with Sylvia, I felt like a superstar. But now I felt like just a number—C.S. 96.
Tim Dowling swiveled to face me. “So, Roman, you said you had a line on something big. Let’s have it.”
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s get it on the books. I think you’re going to like it.”
I used the whiteboard to write down all the information I’d committed to memory. The address, what everyone was wearing, the ins and outs of the house, whether I saw any guns or drugs at the location, each person’s name and demeanor, and how the hierarchy of the organization ran, as I saw it. Conversations we had, even suspicious looks and glances amongst themselves. I gave them everything.
The room was quiet.
Then Pete Davis, ever the skeptic, started chuckling. “You guys come at us all the time with stories like this. Let me ask you something: was Pablo Escobar there as well?” He clapped his hands and laughed louder and harder this time. “Do you know how many CIs try to bullshit us every day? Guys that have been in the program a long time.”
It always took a lot to convince that guy—and sometimes I’ve wondered if he was planted there by the other agents as some sort of psychological lie detector, some sort of “bad cop” game only they understood. Unlike before the bust of Tony’s operation, Davis seemed to have some allies today. No one quite believed what I was telling them.
As disgusted and as exhausted as I was, I knew they still had a hard time understanding the level to which I had lifted Tony’s operation and how committed I was to trying to do some good after being embedded with a violent man in a violent job for so many years. I wasn’t going down without one last fight. I had to plead my case and hope they’d see through all of their failures or near misses over the years and finally just fucking trust me.
“Listen, guys, do you think I want to be stuck up this mountain for two years pulling a few keys a month just to keep your bosses happy with some consistent volume? I told you guys when I came in here that I was going to get you serious scores, and so far I have. I also said that if something is legit it means I’ve done my work and it will turn out to be a legit lead. And this is as legit a lead as I’d ever come across. These people are acting so rashly because they are truly desperate. This is about self-preservation: If this family does not sell the dope they’ve consigned for, they’re all dead. They can’t trust anyone in their organization and they can’t trust any of their clients out in the
street, not until they plug up the hole.”
“Why you, Roman? There are plenty other dealers out there,” Al said.
“Distributors like the kind of person I was are essentially the American arms of the cartels. And people talk. The cartels all know who, for lack of a better description, the good guys are and who the bad guys are. They know Tony’s the enforcer, that I’m the guy who keeps the wheels moving. Are there many like me? No, but there are some, and if I don’t take this deal and work with them ASAP, these people are going to move to the next guy like me quickly because they’re running out of time.”
I waited. Mike Capella was, of course, smiling. I suspected he was down the moment I mentioned fifty keys a week. Slowly Al and Tim both nodded their heads. As far as I was concerned that was three out of four—a unanimous decision.
Tim said, “Okay, Roman. But you can’t run this alone. With something like this, we need another man with you. For corroboration and for sight and sound.”
I thought about that. Inez’s van, already installed with an aftermarket surveillance system, would be the perfect vehicle to do the deal in.
“That’s fine, but they’re going to vet whoever I bring with me,” I said. “They’re going to ask for a valid license, even passports, and they’ll be thorough. I assume you know that the cartels all have ex–Federales men on their payroll.”
Tim nodded. “Not a problem.” He looked at Davis, and after a long beat he smiled. “Don’t worry, you’re not the u/c.” Then he looked at Mike Capella.
And that was it. Mike Capella was to become Joey “Bing” Boningo, my New York–Detroit mob connect, an alias he used before that if backtracked to some New York or Detroit heavyweights in the drug community would actually be verifiable. He was known there as a serious player—and even better, he’d never been burnt.
Al looked at me sidelong. “So what’s the next move, Roman?”