“I guess that means I’m babysitting,” Traynor said laconically.
“I won’t be long.”
Traynor pushed Toledo toward one of the cast-steel chairs and told him to turn around. He took the handcuff key from his pocket and tested the chair, which was too heavy to use as a weapon. “Sit,” he ordered him.
Toledo flopped onto the worn and frayed seat cushion and gave Traynor yet another malevolent stare. “Toledo, if you don’t make a serious attitude adjustment, I’m going to start thinking that you don’t like me. And I’m not very nice to people who don’t like me. Now, I’m going to release the handcuff from one of your hands and fasten it to the chair. If you so much as twitch, I’m going to break your nose … am I clear?”
Toledo gave Traynor a grudging nod.
“Bend forward,” Traynor said. Toledo leaned forward enough for him to reach around and unlock one cuff, which he fastened to the chair arm. He checked it to ensure it was secured and then stepped back.
Toledo reached as far as the shackle allowed and rubbed his wrists. Traynor grinned at him, knowing how much pain there would be as the blood flowed into his hands and woke them up.
“How much?” Toledo asked.
“How much what?”
“How much money will it take for you to let me walk out that door?”
“You don’t have enough.”
“I’m a man of substantial means—”
“No doubt you are, but there isn’t enough money in the world for me to allow a maggot like you to go free.”
“They’ll find me. My men will not stop looking until they free me and kill you and your amigo. I will take great pleasure in making sure that you suffer greatly before you die.”
“You talk pretty fuckin’ big for a man with a loaded gun to his head.” Traynor sat on the edge of the bed farthest away from Toledo and removed his shoes and socks to allow his feet to cool. “Remember, if anything happens to either Manuel or me, you get it next. If it’s up to me, I’ll shoot you in the gut first and then in both knees. You’ll suffer more and it will take you longer to die that way.”
Toledo settled back in the chair and snorted. It was a divisive sound.
After several moments of silence, Traynor asked, “How many of you were involved in making that movie?”
“I have no idea. I only financed the filmmaking.”
“So, Skidgel is the brains behind the production.”
He snorted again. “Skidgel does nothing more than entice the ‘star.’ He is our procurer—no better than a lowly pimp, if you prefer.”
“Then who’s the brains behind the production?”
“A person who is well known throughout the American movie industry. If you let me go, I’ll give you his name.”
“Before this is over, you’ll give us whatever names we want. You bastards are all alike. You’d sell your wife and kids to drop a couple of years from your sentence.”
Toledo’s face flushed with anger. “I am going to take great pleasure in killing you.”
“You’d better bring some heavy artillery, because I’ll use my last ounce of energy to cut you down. Now, shut up. I’m tired of listening to you talk out your ass.” Traynor lifted up one of his socks and smelled the sour reek of foot odor. He showed it to him and said, “Or else—”
Manuel returned with the Mexican equivalent of fast food and several bottles of soda. “We got any ice?” Traynor asked.
“Remember what I said about no ice,” Manuel grumbled.
Traynor’s watch said two in the morning when Manuel woke him up. He reached for the lamp and Manuel hissed, “No. We have company.” Traynor slid from the bed and looked to their prisoner. He could see Toledo in the ambient light that glowed through the partially closed drapes. He lay on the floor with most of his body hidden in the shadow of the bed. All that was visible was one arm, which was still shackled to the metal chair.
“Who?”
“Local cops.”
Traynor moved to the window and peered through the gap at the side of the blinds. Two men in tan uniforms were studying the Ford closely, inspecting it from all angles. One of them walked back to their dented and dusty squad car and spoke into the handset. He was either running the plates or notifying someone of their presence. “What do we do?” he asked Manuel.
“I’m going out to talk to them. You get Toledo ready to move.”
When Manuel stuck his nine millimeter into the back waistband of his trousers, Traynor asked, “Is that wise?”
“No, but it’s probably smart. Be ready to move on my signal.”
Manuel opened the door and stepped out into the night. He was easily visible in the light from the bare bulb in the fixture beside their door. Traynor heard him greet the cops in Spanish.
Traynor shoved his bare feet inside his shoes, drew his pistol, and kicked the bottom of Toledo’s foot. He placed a finger over his lips and aimed the pistol at his head. He motioned for him to get into the chair, and then stood back. Once he was settled, Traynor said in a low voice, “One fuckin’ peep out of you and you’ll be trying to convince Saint Peter not to send you to hell. You got me?”
He nodded. Traynor motioned for him to twist sideways and unlocked the cuff from the chair. He felt Toledo tense, so he touched his ear with the muzzle of his gun. “Go ahead …” Toledo settled and Traynor cuffed his wrists behind his back. He paused and then got one of his more devious ideas. He returned to his bed, picked up his soiled socks, returned to Toledo, and pinched his nostrils closed. In less than a minute, Toledo’s mouth opened and Traynor pushed the socks in and released his grip on his nose. “There. Now I don’t have to worry about you calling them. Get up and move over by the side of the door.”
Toledo shook his head, trying to dislodge the socks. Traynor placed a hand on his head, stabilizing it. He shook his head and said, “You wouldn’t want me to have to bust you up, now would you?”
Toledo stopped moving and looked at Traynor like he was going to cry. Traynor mocked him. “You know, Holy, whoever started your reputation as a badass must not have met you in person. For a big-time drug dealer, you got to be the biggest damned wimp I ever met.”
He heard a brief scuffle outside and then Manuel said, “Bring him out.”
Traynor led Toledo through the door and saw the two cops shackled together, back to back, with handcuffs. The microphone to their radio lay on the pavement, its cord ripped out of the transceiver.
Manuel pushed the cops toward the now vacant room. They looked comical as they shuffled sideways, banging each other against the sides of the doorway as Manuel shoved them inside.
Manuel turned his head and asked Traynor, “You get everything?”
When Traynor nodded, he locked the door, sealing them in. He looked at the black socks hanging from Toledo’s mouth. “You didn’t …”
“Couldn’t risk him shouting for help.”
“Those aren’t a clean pair, are they?”
“Nope, need them for my feet.”
Traynor heard him chuckling softly. Manuel walked to the police car and got behind the wheel. “I’m gonna put this out of sight. You get him into our car and be ready to go when I get back.” Manuel looked at Toledo once again, shook his head, and laughed as he drove the police car behind the building.
In minutes, Traynor had Toledo in the front passenger seat, his handcuffs threaded through the handgrip above the window, and was behind the wheel with the motor running. Manuel came running around the building, paused for a second when he saw Toledo in the front, and then jumped in the back.
As Traynor accelerated out of the parking lot, he looked at Manuel in the rearview mirror and said, “I figured that if he’s up here, we can take turns sleeping back there. The GPS calculates a nine-hour drive to Juárez, and we can take turns at the wheel.”
“We should avoid Juárez. The drug lords up there have the policía under siege.”
“Is there any place in this fuckin’ country that’s safe?�
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“Sure, parts of Acapulco—if the gangs of street kids don’t rip you off. Cozumel, and most of the resorts are pretty safe.”
Traynor drove out of the city and when they were in the primordial dark of the rolling hills, asked, “How are we going to get this piece of shit across the border?”
“Not sure yet. You have any ideas?”
“You’re the guy who knows the turf down here.”
“I’ll call Deborah and tell her we need someone to meet us at a place to be determined.” Manuel chuckled. “It looks as if we’re about to become wetbacks.”
Incidents have occurred during the day and at night, and carjackers have used a variety of techniques, including roadblocks, bumping/moving vehicles to force them to stop, and running vehicles off the road at high speeds. There are indications that criminals target newer and larger vehicles, especially dark-colored SUVs.
—Mexico Travel Warning, issued by the United States Department of State, dated January 9, 2014
39
“Which way?” Traynor asked Manuel.
“Stay on Route 23. There aren’t that many major roads in this country and anyone looking for us will be able to watch them easily.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear …”
“I know, but it’s what you needed to hear. We have to stay away from the toll roads as much as possible. By now every toll-taker in Mexico has been alerted to the reward that’s been offered to anyone who spots us.”
“You know,” Traynor said, “a few days ago, this caper seemed so easy, but it sure as hell got complicated fast.”
“We haven’t seen anything yet.”
Manuel looked at Toledo and said, “Is he turning blue?”
Traynor glanced at their passenger. “A bit.”
“Either the dye is running out of your sock or it’s poisoning him.”
“You think?”
“I think.”
Traynor turned his head and said, “If you keep your food-trap shut, I’ll take those things out … but if you so much as say one goddamned word, I’ll put them back in. You got that?”
Toledo nodded.
Traynor pulled the socks from his mouth and offered him a bottle of water. “Drink?”
Still secured to the handgrip, Toledo was unable to open the bottle, so Manuel took the water, removed the cap, and held it in front of Toledo’s face. The drug kingpin leaned forward, took the bottle in his lips, and when Manuel tipped it, guzzled water down.
Traynor glanced over, saw water trickling down Toledo’s chin, and drove on into the darkness of early morning.
I may be getting old, but not foolish.
—Elia Kazan
40
Deborah was already eating a light breakfast of yogurt and coffee when McMahon entered the dining room. She looked as fresh as the early-morning dew and was once again dressed in jeans, ready for wherever the day took them. They had watched the majestic house into which Doerr and Provost had taken refuge until 2:00 a.m., and when McMahon had shaved that morning, he had not liked what he saw in the mirror. His face sagged and his eyes were bloodshot; he thought that he looked older than last week’s weather report. His first reaction had been to say, “There has to be a better way of dying than this gettin’ old shit.”
He sat across from Deborah and when the server appeared, ordered coffee. “Kondrat Jabłoński,” she said.
“What the hell is that?”
“I guess you don’t follow the Hollywood scene much.”
When the server returned and placed a steaming mug of coffee before him, McMahon smiled at her. As she walked away, he watched the exaggerated sway of her ass in her tight, short skirt and then turned to Deborah. She grinned at him and he felt his face flush. “What can I say?” he said. “I like women.”
“I’m not surprised. Nevertheless, you had that wistful look old men get when they see an attractive young woman.”
Considering his earlier concerns, that hit too close to the mark and he knew he sounded defensive when he said, “Hey, I’m not that old.”
Deborah sipped her coffee and said, “Who are you trying to convince—me or you?”
Rather than dig himself in deeper, he changed the topic, “No, I don’t follow the Hollywood scene.”
“Kondrat Jabłoński is the hottest director in town right now. Three of his last four movies were nominated for Oscars—one even won best director.”
McMahon sat back, all thoughts of his age gone. “There is no way someone that well known would direct anything like The Black Orchid.”
“Don’t be so sure. Jabłoński is a Polish ex-patriot, and when he arrived here from Poland, he was all but a nobody. To fend off starvation, he directed several financially successful pornos before he got the chance to make any mainstream films. He is also a very close friend of Larry Provost. Engels told me they’re often seen together hitting some of the clubs.”
“So, there is something of a track record here.”
“Yup … and who knows what someone like Toledo may have on him.”
Mexico is facing clearly the most severe security challenge it has experienced in nearly a century. You’re looking at battles between the government and the drug cartels, among the various cartels themselves, and violence inflicted by organized crime groups against civilians.
—Fred Burton, former deputy chief of the counterterrorism division of the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service
41
Traynor was sleeping on the backseat when the surface of the road got rough. Manuel had to slow down to control of the vehicle as he navigated along the many ruts and potholes. “Where are we?” Traynor asked.
“We just left Route 23. This secondary road will take us north to Route 45, which will take us out of the state of Durango and into Chihuahua.”
Toledo was slumped against the side window, and when they dropped into a deep rut that cut across the unpaved surface, his head banged against the glass and he woke up. He shook his head a few times to clear it and blinked his eyes against the early-morning light.
Once again the early haze promised a torrid day—even the countryside had changed. The land through which they drove was mostly high desert, with scrub brush and a small population of tropical palm and cactus trees; on all sides, mountains were visible against the horizon. “Where are we?” Traynor asked.
“The Sierra Madres. We’ve been driving through them since we left Durango. You couldn’t see them in the dark.”
Traynor studied the terrain and wished he had a hot cup of coffee. To take his mind off his body’s desire for caffeine, he commented, “Looks like it’s gonna be a hot day.”
“It may not get as hot as you think—maybe the mid- to upper eighties. We’re more than six thousand feet above sea level here—it doesn’t get all that hot. Wait until we get into Chihuahua … that’s some real desert.”
Toledo said, “I have to meada.”
“What does he want?” Traynor asked Manuel.
“He has to take a piss,” Manuel said.
The road was empty and the countryside uninhabited, so Manuel pulled over, stopping beside a ditch that ran alongside the road. Traynor got out and opened the door for Toledo, who smiled sweetly at him and rattled the handcuffs, which were still threaded through the handgrip located near the window. Traynor stepped back and said to Manuel, “Undo him.”
Manuel gave him an incredulous look. “What do you mean undo him? He can get his own dick out.”
“Not if you don’t unlock his handcuffs,” Traynor added.
“You probably should have said that in the first place,” Manuel grumbled.
To ensure that Toledo was a good boy, Traynor took his pistol from the holster suspended from his belt and aimed it at him. “Get out.”
Toledo stepped to the edge of the ditch, rubbing life back into his wrists. He looked up at the sky and said, “A beautiful day … no?”
“Yeah,” Traynor said. “It shows promise.”
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“Yes, much too splendid a day for dying.”
“If I were you, I’d hold that thought. Now do your thing.”
Traynor stepped back so that he was out of range. He would not have put it past Toledo to stumble or falter, spraying him. Once he was finished, Traynor motioned him back into the truck with the pistol. Manuel secured him to the handhold once again and exited the SUV. As they stood side by side, doing their bit to irrigate the sandy soil, Manuel stared off at the mountains.
“Looks peaceful out here,” Traynor commented.
“Don’t become complacent. The state of Durango has the second highest number of gang killings in Mexico. We’re in the middle of one of the busiest drug routes in the world.”
“Which state is number one? Sonora?”
“Nope, Chihuahua.”
“Terrific. Right along our escape route.”
In the distance Traynor saw a small aircraft circling over the mountains. Each loop seemed to bring it closer to them. “Does that plane look as if it’s coming this way?” he asked.
Manuel looked in the direction he was pointing. “Zip up and get in the truck.”
Mexico’s murder rate has doubled over the past five years, to nearly nineteen per 100,000 people per year.
—Economist.com
42
“What do we do now?” Deborah asked without taking her eyes from the windshield.
“We wait and watch. We don’t have anything on Jabłoński—yet. Who knows, we might get lucky. They may decide to call a meeting of all the crew.”
“Why don’t we squeeze Skidgel, or even the Doerr woman?”
“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. Once Ed and Manuel get Toledo out of Mexico, I wouldn’t be surprised if the bastards don’t trample all over each other trying to cut a deal.”
“What if they decide to go down together?”
McMahon sipped from a takeout coffee cup. “The odds are against that. One of them will want to avoid the slammer.”
Black Orchid Page 17