"Si," he said.
That was the only word I ever heard him say.
Si--yes, he would pursue us no more. And with the pictures of me at my murder scene which he would deliver to Ignacio Velasquez, the cartel would pursue us no more either.
It was done.
How do I know Ishmael Montague was a man of his word and would keep his end of the bargain for the huge sum of money I paid him that night?
I didn't--I don't. But so far he has, and it's been five years.
43
Detective McMann and I arrived at O'Hare Airport at just after six the morning after I met Montague and paid him off. She had been alerted there were airport CCTV films of Montague boarding a plane before dawn and flying out of Chicago. Facial recognition software had identified him and flagged Detective Kendra McMann.
Together we walked inside the airport after leaving her car at the curb right in front of the main terminal.
She knew the way to security on the second floor. We hurried up the stairs together.
A jocular young man wearing a TSA uniform allowed us to enter the room once McMann had flashed her star.
"Ishmael Montague," she told the young man. "All video."
"Coming right up," the TSA officer said. "Watch screen four."
We did as we were told. I was amused when I saw a man carrying my Captain's Club bag into the airport, right through the main entrance. There was no doubt who it was; McMann turned to me "Meet Ishmael Montague," she told me through tight lips.
"I see him," I said. "He does look like a killer."
Which made no sense. I still wouldn't know a killer from a carpet cleaner as far as she knew. I was still a TV producer, not a cop. And not the woman who had seen the man the night before.
We watched as the man moved through the focus of several cameras: standing in line at the ticket counter; walking down the TSA security line; walking back up the long corridor toward the waiting area. And then we watched as he boarded a plane bound for San Diego.
"She was wheels-up maybe an hour ago. ATC says there is nothing unusual, they are non-stop to San Diego."
McMann turned to me. I'd never seen the woman look more puzzled than right at that moment.
"I honestly don't know what to think, Melissa," she said to me. "We could have him arrested, but we have no proof he committed any crime. I just don't know what to think."
"Me neither," I said.
"But we'll never let our guard down," she promised me. "He won't get within fifty miles of my city without me knowing. It's a done deal."
"That makes me feel better," I said.
We left the airport that day, and she drove me home.
Except we did stop off for breakfast after she'd made a half-dozen calls on her radio.
She gave me the third degree. How did I explain him leaving? Had I done or said anything to him personally? Had someone else done something? This went on for a good thirty minutes while I suffered through eggs and bacon that had never been as tasteless as when a police officer was expressing her suspicions of me between the lines of what she was actually saying.
I had done something, and she knew it.
She just didn't know what.
44
Ishmael Montague did fly to San Diego, where he walked out of the airport and jumped on the trolley to the U.S.-Mexico border. From there it was a forty-five-minute ride on the Imperial Way blue line. He relaxed during the ride, jumping off the trolley one time to run across the street and buy a pint of gin, which he tucked into the pocket of his coat and nipped at after he had hopped yet another trolley south.
After arriving in San Ysidro, he walked into a pawn shop across from the station and sold his .44 magnum. Hanging from his shoulder was the Captains Club bag Melissa had given him. Inside were two 8 x 10 pictures. One of them was a picture of Ignacio Velasquez and written across the bottom in red ink were the words: "¡Matar a este hombre!" Kill this man! The second picture was a picture of his own mother. It had been taken by XFBI in Buenos Aires just two days earlier. It was the reason why Montague had come to Tijuana instead of flying straight home to Buenos Aires.
Then there was also a group of smaller photographs bound with a single silver paperclip.
From the station, it was a short walk to the Mexican border. He moved toward the left of the central San Ysidro transit center building. There were signs in both English and Spanish that lead the way to the well-known—to him—swivel gates and Mexican custom lines that lead to Tijuana. Passing through immigration into Mexico was a simple process.
Once he had crossed the Mexican border and exited immigration, he had a choice. Downtown Tijuana was about a thirty-minute walk. There would be plenty of cantinas along the way where he could buy a beer to chase his gin. So he decided to walk. His appointment wasn't until 11 a.m., so there was plenty of time. Besides, he wanted to be fairly well-oiled by the time he got there. The meeting and the outcome were going to be much more dangerous than anything he'd ever done before. Alcohol was a must.
Usually, he worked without alcohol. But this wasn't normally. This was a once-in-a-lifetime meeting with the most powerful man in Mexico.
Two miles south of the border he ducked into a cantina named Oso Negro after the famous alcohol producer. Oso Negro was a household name in Mexico, and the familiarity beckoned to Montague as he stepped inside and pulled out a barstool with the toe of his boot. The stool squeaked as he dragged it several inches across the tile floor, causing the bartender to look up from his chores at the wet sink and walk toward the killer.
"Yes, sir?"
"Dos Equis, please," Montague replied in Spanish.
A minute later, his beer arrived. He pulled the gin bottle from his pocket, took a swallow, and chased it down with a drink of the beer. Much better, he thought, much better than swilling down straight gin. Someone might think I'm no better than a common drunk, drinking straight from the bottle. Well, I'm not. I'm just—I'm just—
He couldn't even think it. He couldn't even think that he was scared—no—terrified at what he was about to do.
Three more beers chased down three more shots of gin. He paid his tab with American dollars, walked toward the cantina entrance, and looked out into the brilliant sunshine. Then he walked across the street, dodging cars and taxis as he went, and ducked into a leather goods store. Trying on several leather hats, he finally found one with a silver belt encircling the crown. The hat fit him perfectly, so he paid twelve dollars to the owner. Then he hailed a taxicab.
"I need a gun," he told the driver.
The cab driver looked at him in the mirror.
"Are you the police?"
"Do I look like the fucking police, huh?"
The cab driver turned off the main drag, went up two stop signs, and began driving up a small hill.
"How much do you want to spend?" the driver said as he pulled up alongside a well-kept adobe.
"Price isn't important. I need a small gun. A two-inch barrel if possible."
"I'll go inside," said the cabbie, and he went up and entered the house without knocking. A few minutes later he stuck his head out the door. "Five hundred American?"
"Okay," Montague shouted back.
The cabbie came and collected five one-hundred dollar bills from his passenger. Then he disappeared inside the house.
He returned carrying a white handkerchief wrapped around a solid object. He stopped at the rear window and passed the package inside. Montague unfolded the handkerchief and saw the .38-caliber S&W pistol. He checked the cylinder. Fully loaded.
Then he did a funny thing. He removed his hat and studied it. Then he turned it over and began pulling at the knot at the inside rear of the hat. The knot was a strong leather thong that exited out the back of the hat and comprised the belt upon which the silver conchos of the belt were strung. Freeing up the knot inside, he placed the gun in the top of the hat where it lay upside-down in his lap. Then he threaded the leather thong through the trigger guard
and tied it off.
He next tried it on. The hat fit his head perfectly; the gun was nowhere to be seen.
"All right," he told the cabbie, "take me to La Posada Rojo."
"This is going to cost you."
"Money is no object. Is one-hundred USD enough?"
"Yes, Señor, that is fair for the ride."
"And how much to keep you quiet?"
The cabbie studied him in the rearview mirror. It was like the killer had read his mind.
"One thousand U.S."
Ever so slowly Montague counted off eleven one-hundred dollar bills. He passed them forward to the driver.
For the next several minutes they threaded through creeping, late-morning traffic. Everyone was out by now, and the streets were clogged with cars and trucks and scooters, particularly in the traffic circles, where it was mayhem. Montague checked his watch.
He still had fifteen minutes.
The taxi pulled up in front of the cantina with the sign of the red inn, La Posada Rojo. Without exchanging another word with the driver, the passenger threw open the rear door, climbed out and disappeared inside the cantina. The taxi lurched ahead and began a run for the other end of town.
Montague entered the cantina and looked around for a table. Everything was taken even at ten forty-five in the morning. It was mostly tourists, so he stood at the bar and ordered a beer while he waited for a table to open. Halfway down the beer a man and woman got up from the table under the bullfight poster. The man threw a few bills on the table, and they were walking away when Montague hurried by them and claimed the table. He sat down and whistled to the bartender to bring him another beer.
While the killer waited, his eyes slowly passed across every other face in the cantina. He was looking for the telltale eyes of the cartel man, eyes that held no light and no love. But the men and women who were occupying the tables and dancing to the jukebox were for the most part gringos—tourists on a lark. He didn't feel threatened by any of them, which was a good thing. He just might make it out alive after all.
At 11:05 Montague was horrified that he might have been stood up. He had called the man last night and told him he had the pictures of the dead woman to give him. The man wanted the pictures. He wanted proof that the killer of Javier Menendez was in hell where she belonged.
At 11:07 everything changed. The man himself walked in. To the utter astonishment of Ishmael Montague, the man had but one other man with him. Montague wasn't about to lapse into a false sense of security just because the man was traveling with only one bodyguard. He figured there would be three or four outside on the sidewalk carefully watching everyone who came and went.
Montague stood up from his table and raised his arm over his head. The man's head turned. He had seen the killer.
Walking over with an expressionless mask that he wore when doing business, Ignacio Velasquez started for Montague's table. He roughly pushed his way through several dancers who were swinging and swaying to Elton John's Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting.
Coming up to the table, Velasquez took the far seat across from Montague, snugged up against the wall and the bullfight poster. His bodyguard made Montague raise his arms out to the sides, and he patted him down. "Clean," he told his boss. Velasquez nodded. His bodyguard sat down next to him, blocking the narcotraficante with his bulk.
"What would you like?" the bodyguard asked his boss.
"We just wait," said Velasquez. "Someone is coming."
Sure enough, minutes later a woman wearing a peasant blouse and bright red lipstick on her full lips was bending forward, displaying her ample cleavage to the crime boss. She knew that he owned La Posada Rojo and knew he expected the best alcohol and service and whatever else he wanted when he came there.
"Bring me a Coke in a bottle," said Velasquez.
"American or Mexican?" asked the waitress, smiling beyond all reasonable smiles.
"Mexican Coke always," the boss answered.
"Anyone else?" she said to the bodyguard and Montague.
"I'm fine," said Montague.
"He don't drink on duty," Velasquez told the woman, smiling and showing his gold dental crowns. "And bring this other one another bottle of beer. He's running on empty over here."
Montague shrugged at the woman and smiled. Another beer would be just fine.
The woman sliced back across the dance floor effortlessly. While she was away, no words were exchanged. They would talk when it was time.
The drinks arrived. Velasquez watched as the woman opened the Coke with a bottle opener. The beer was already open when it arrived.
"To you," said Velasquez, holding the open Coke aloft. He touched it to the beer bottle held by Montague. Then they both drank deeply.
"So. Do you have them?" Velasquez asked.
"I do."
Montague unzipped his Captains Club bag and looked inside. The photographs he wanted for the narco were clipped with a single paperclip. He pulled the photos from the bag and laid them before Velasquez, right side up. He removed the paperclip.
Velasquez slowly slid picture after picture to the side, studying the woman who had come to his home and played the gun game and won. It looked to him like she had finally lost.
He studied the close-up of the bullet hole in the center of her forehead.
"There's no blood," he said to Montague, an eyebrow raised.
Montague reached across the table and slid the picture aside. "Look at this next one. It's taken further away. Now, look at the blood on both sides of her head. The bullet blew out the back of her head, Iggy."
"I see, I see."
"I promise you, she is quite dead."
"Now I can see that. You have done well, Monti. A very nice piece of work. Now I don't get to kill you. Maybe some other time." The same smile with the same gold crowns was displayed, proof to Montague that the narco was only teasing. But Montague didn't take it as a tease. He took it in all seriousness.
"Well," said Montague. "I'm glad you're satisfied. Now I have to find the bathroom. Too many beers."
Velasquez's eyes were still studying the photos when Montague stood and pushed his chair away from the table. The bodyguard studied his every move.
"Please," said Montague, removing his hat, "please watch my hat while I'm gone." He went to lay it down but didn't. Instead, his hand swept inside and found the snub-nosed pistol, and he pointed the muzzle directly at the guard's forehead. With two quick shots, he killed the guard and Velasquez. It was short and over in a millisecond. Many in the cantina turned to look, but Montague was already leaving through the front door.
"Take me to the border," he told the cabbie waiting out front for a tourist. "¡Prisa!"
They flew through the streets back to the border while Montague pushed one-hundred-dollar-bills over the seatback into the driver's lap. "How fast can you get me there? Faster!"
The American border agent would take no less than five-thousand dollars to let him pass through at the head of the long line. He waited on others while Montague counted out the bills then passed them through the window inside his American passport. The passport came back to him empty, and the gate opened to allow him through.
Rather than a trolley ride, this time he took a cab back to the airport. A flight was waiting to Lisbon, Portugal, where his wife and his mother and his son would already be waiting for him.
There was enough money in the bag that they would never want. The American woman had seen to that.
45
My beautiful family.
My adopted daughter Susannah got her GED and became a dental hygienist. She's happily married to a stockbroker on the Chicago Exchange. At first, she cleaned his teeth. Then they went out and were later engaged. They married at First Methodist in Evanston and now live in a suburban condo with its own back yard in which two English Sheepdogs play with the twin girls who come outside under Mommy's watchful eye. The yard is fenced, and there are video cameras all around.
Susannah herself
is a happy, well-adjusted young woman who is confident and sometimes even a bit trusting of others around her. My relationship with her isn't perfect, mostly because her history with her birth parents wasn't what it needed to be. Hopefully, James and I have filled some of her empty places in her soul, and hopefully, she'll continue to drop by and see us every other day or so, with and without kids, with and without her husband, just because she likes us. We don't talk about Mexico--ever. She is satisfied with the work she did with the counselors we provided and the time we all spent together before she married. I wouldn't trade her for any of my kids; she is special in her own right, and she is loved.
Gladys is at that awkward stage between childhood and teenager when friends are the most important thing in the world, and there aren't enough hours in the day to send and receive all the texts one needs to make one's world a satisfactory place. She runs the sprints in track and has a trophy wall in her bedroom as she's now winning county-wide events. James and I attend all of her track meets, and we sometimes chaperone her school dances. When she grows up, she wants to be an environmental scientist specializing in community water supplies. She works and earns money by babysitting, and some of that goes to African water well exploration and drilling. We are repeatedly warned by her how foolish it is to buy bottled water; we use a relatively inexpensive filter on our taps that she researched and recommends.
James knows I miss Mark. He knows that in one way Mark was the love of my life and he knows that in an entirely different way he—James—is the love of my life. They are very different men, and they appealed to entirely different parts of me. I teach my girls that women are very different from men in how we see the world and family and mates but that we all have the same brain that can learn and excel at the same mental challenges in this life. I like to think that because of this my girls have never flinched from trying things in the world that a half century ago women weren't supposed to be doing. We're all equals now, and that's the one thing I have asked they seek in a mate--whether male or female--a partner. The reason I go into such depth on this stuff with my girls--especially Susannah and Lisa, is that they had so much of their personhood--read 'womanhood'--all but extinguished by the men who once owned them and abused them. We talk a lot, all of us, about the value of the individual and the gift of equality we're all born with.
The Empty Place at the Table Page 21