by Carmen Amato
No wonder Gomez Mazzo came here. Nice change from stuffing kids with cocaine and murdering Zetas on dusty streets.
Eddo walked up the steps to the small building housing the commanding officer of the Antigua and Barbuda Coast Guard. It was close to the Falmouth Harbor Marina, on the southeast side of the island, in an area known as English Harbor. A gray patrol boat was pulled up to a long dock. The boat was gleaming and shipshape, which was a good indication of the professionalism of our institutions.
The first thing Eddo saw inside the building was a long glass trophy case crammed with photographs of soccer teams, ribbons, gold and silver trophies, signed game balls, and other mementos from years of inter-island defense force competition. He bent to read the inscription on a particularly old trophy. 1944 Caribbean Watchstander Finals.
“You a fan?”
Eddo straightened up. The speaker was an athletic black man in his early thirties wearing a lightweight but crisply pressed uniform with impressive epaulets. His hair was as short as Eddo’s. “Always,” Eddo said. “Nice collection in your showcase.”
“You look as if you could do some serious damage yourself.”
“On a good day,” Eddo said.
“We play on Saturdays,” the officer said. “Always happy to accommodate a visitor.”
“Thanks,” Eddo replied. “I’m looking for the commanding officer.”
“You found him.” The man held out his hand. “Ian Crispell.”
Eddo shook hands. “Eduardo Cortez.”
“I gather you’re not from around here, Mr. Cortez.”
“Mexico.”
Crispell nodded. “Please don’t tell me your wife lost a diamond ring while water-skiing and you’d like the Coast Guard to go look for it.”
“You get a lot of Mexicans here with that kind of money?”
“A few.” Crispell nodded again as if he had taken Eddo’s measure and liked what he saw. “Come on into my office and tell me what brings you to our humble shores.”
Crispell’s office had a large Antigua and Barbuda Defense Forces seal on the wall and a recruiting poster for the Coast Guard but otherwise it was plain and sterile. The window looked out over the dock and the shiny patrol boat.
The Coast Guard commander indicated the chair across from the desk. Eddo sat, smiling at the lack of décor. “Looks a lot like my office at home,” he said.
“And what is it that you do at home, Mr. Cortez?” Crispell sat in the swivel chair behind the desk. He was a neat worker with only a few files on the desk, their edges aligned. The surface of the desk gleamed with polish.
“I close down drug cartels,” Eddo said. “And I need your help.”
Crispell got up and closed the door. When he sat back down he leaned forward. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but how can the Antigua and Barbuda Coast Guard help?”
“I have reason to believe that the head of the El Toro cartel, Gustavo Gomez Mazzo, occasionally docks his yacht called Sheba at the Falmouth Harbor Marina and that he’ll be back soon for a meeting with some associates.”
Crispell’s jaw dropped. Madre de Dios but the guy should never play poker with Tomás.
“Here’s the warrant for his arrest and a letter from Attorney General Fonseca.” Eddo put the documents on the desk.
Crispell read both the letter and the warrant. “The Coast Guard will do whatever we can, Mr. Cortez, keeping in mind we’re a force of less than 30 people and only four patrol boats.” He started scribbling on a piece of paper. “But frankly, this is above my pay grade. You need to go see the Minister of National Security, Dr. Wibley. Here are directions to his office in St. John’s.”
“Wibley said he has to consult with his government to determine if it’s legal to tell me if the Sheba has ever docked at Falmouth.”
Crispell put down his pen. “You’ve seen Wibley, then?”
“This morning.”
“He gave you the hand?” Crispell asked.
“Sorry?” Eddo hadn’t heard that English expression before.
Crispell held up a hand as if stopping traffic. “The hand.”
“Well put,” Eddo said. “You want to tell me why?”
“He’s my chain of command,” Crispell said. “So, uh. No.”
Eddo folded his arms. “Part of the Coast Guard’s mandate is the prevention of drug smuggling. It’s right on your website.”
Crispell rubbed his chin and squinted at Eddo. “Do you have reasonable suspicion that--.” He checked the letter. “This Sheba will be bringing drugs into Antigua and Barbuda?”
“The owner of the Sheba is a known drug smuggler,” Eddo said.
The phone on Crispell’s desk rang. He rolled his eyes as if in apology and picked up the receiver. “Crispell.”
Eddo watched as Crispell’s face displayed concern, then dismay, and finally anger. Crispell said, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” and a last “I’ll let you know if I hear anything, sir.” He hung up and rubbed his chin again. “You’re pretty popular here, Mr. Cortez.”
“Just a small circle of admirers,” Eddo said.
“Too bad I never met you.”
“You can stop and board the Sheba on suspicion of bringing drugs into your country,” Eddo said, swinging the conversation back to where he needed it to be. “Detain Gomez Mazzo long enough for Mexico to request extradition and get some cops here to pick him up.”
Crispell cocked his head at the phone. “You’re asking more than my career can afford.”
Eddo didn’t reply, just used the tried and true method of letting an uncomfortable silence test the other man’s nerve.
He was a decent guy and Crispell cracked fast. “Listen,” he said. “The American consul will be in town tomorrow. Go talk to him. Maybe he can twist Wibley’s arm or something.” He sighed and wrote down a number. “Here’s my cell. In case of an emergency.”
“Thanks.”
Crispell handed Eddo the paper. “I like this job, Mr. Cortez,” he warned.
Chapter 78
Graduation day was bittersweet.
Luz sat in the big church of Santa Catalina during the graduation mass and watched Juan Pablo in his new suit sitting with his classmates in the front pew. She’d worked so hard for this day but had always imagined it differently.
Maria would be there, pleased and weepy that her baby was graduating from high school. Luz and Lupe would be happy and excited and still close.
After the Mass, the graduates filed out of the church, through the school garden and into the school’s gymnasium. Guests followed and sat on folding chairs. The bishop made the keynote speech then handed out the diplomas and awards.
Juan Pablo graduated fourth in his class, won the language medal for the highest grade point average in English and French, and was awarded the Athlete of the Year trophy. Luz nearly burst with pride as he walked up to the podium again and again. Seated between Luz and Lupe, Martina and Sophia swung their legs and bounced each time they heard Tío Juan Pablo’s name. Luz stole a glance at Lupe. Her sister’s eyes were teary.
Luz reached out her hand. Lupe took it and squeezed gently. For a little while things were all right again.
'
Juan Pablo left on the all-stars fútbol tour the day after graduation. Tío came and worked the forge that afternoon. Luz kept an eye on him, drifting between the forge and the house on the pretext of doing laundry and hanging it in the yard. After la cena she carried some clean tee shirts upstairs to Juan Pablo’s room.
As Luz put away his things she saw that his dresser drawers were nearly empty. He’d asked to borrow the big rolling suitcase she’d been given by Hector and Luz had not given the request much thought. Now as she looked around, she saw that his new suit, all of his shirts and pants, his fútbol equipment, and his sports bag were gone. The desk was stripped of his diploma, the fourth place certificate, the language medal, the trophy, and all the other academic ribbons and awards he’d won in high school. Gone too were his few prized books, inc
luding his Tolkien paperbacks and the copy of El Cantar de Mio Cid Luz had given him for graduation.
Chapter 79
Eddo introduced himself to Alan Dowd as the latter was winding up dinner with a stout local gentleman. The American consul looked surprised when Eddo handed over an old business card proclaiming his importance as the Director of the Office of Special Investigations and asked if Dowd would join him for a drink at the bar at his convenience.
The restaurant was fish-themed, with strands of dark blue netting strung across the ceiling, punctuated by cork floats and recycled glass orbs. Battered tin lanterns on every table added an authentic touch. Enormous stuffed swordfish hung on the side walls, arched to look as though they were leaping out of the ocean. The back of the place was open to the beach. Diners who didn’t mind bugs sat out on the deck.
A big sign over the bar read “The Blue Marlin” and specialty drinks were served in margarita glasses with blue glass seahorse stems. The soundtrack was all steel drum, played soft enough to hear conversation and the waves lapping the beach below the deck. The bartender charged Eddo the equivalent of 200 pesos for a tall glass of tonic water with a wedge of lime. Eddo slid onto a bar stool, a vantage point from where he could see Dowd and his dinner companion in the main dining area, and thought about what Luz would have to say about the decor. It would be something acidic and then there’d be that I shouldn’t have said that look that always made him laugh. Madre de Dios but he missed her.
Dowd appeared after 30 minutes of fish-gazing. “So Mr. Cortez, what can I do for you?”
“Let me buy you a drink.”
Dowd ordered a Cuba libre, which made Eddo’s stomach wince, and they moved to a booth in the back of the bar.
“I have an unusual problem,” Eddo said. “And I hope you have sufficient influence here in Antigua to help me.”
The waitress brought Dowd’s drink and he raised it in a salute to Eddo before taking a long, appreciative swallow. “I probably can’t help your immigration situation, Mr. Cortez,” Dowd said.
“Not every Mexican has an immigration problem,” Eddo said. He took out Fonseca’s letter and the warrant and passed them across the table. “I have reasonable suspicion that the head of the El Toro cartel will be in Antigua in two days.”
“The El Toro cartel?” Dowd asked. “What the hell’s that?”
“Responsible for nearly half of the cocaine and marijuana flowing over the border into the United States,” Eddo said, trying not to let his astonishment show. How was it possible that a norteamericano diplomat in the region hadn’t heard of the El Toro cartel? “El Toro has killed more than 20,000 people over the last three years, including two US immigration agents last year. Head of the cartel has been on our wanted list for years.”
Dowd drank some more Cuba libre. “Why tell me?”
In his early fifties, Eddo guessed, with blondish-grayish thinning hair, a long morose face, and a paunch. Dowd wore a blue striped button-down shirt without a tie and a beige suit that had seen better days.
“The head of the cartel might be coming to Antigua,” Eddo said again. “The locals don’t seem all that interested.”
“Wibley.” Dowd finished his drink in a gulp.
“Yes,” Eddo said and signaled for the waitress to bring Dowd another.
Dowd nodded his thanks. “Dr. Wibley doesn’t want problems like yours.”
“So he just pretends they don’t happen?”
“Worked for him so far,” Dowd said. “When was the last time Antigua made the news for anything but a touristy good time?”
Eddo indicated the papers. “If you could just take a look.”
“Sure.” Dowd read the letter, stopping only when the second Cuba libre came. His hands on the paper were soft and unhealthy-looking. No wedding ring. Probably divorced. Paying alimony. No girlfriend, either.
“This is a sorry situation, but I can’t help you,” Dowd said. He drank down half of his new drink, folded the papers, and gave them back.
“I hear you have some pull with Wibley,” Eddo said. “Maybe you can suggest that he allow the local Coast Guard to search the Sheba. Suspected drug dealing.”
Dowd sighed and polished off the rest of his latest drink. “Mr. Cortez, I’m not the ambassador. Just some mid-level bureaucrat who passes through two, maybe three days a month to process visas, eat lunch with the Chamber of Commerce and dedicate a school.”
“Your government has a warrant out for Gomez Mazzo’s arrest, too,” Eddo pointed out.
“Maybe.” Dowd licked his lips. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Call your FBI. Or DEA.”
Dowd played with his empty glass. “So how do you win?”
“I don’t care who takes this guy out of circulation, just as long as he’s gone.”
“Wibley’s the government here,” Dowd said with a shrug.
Dowd wasn’t signing up to help but he wasn’t jockeying to leave as long as the drinks were coming. Eddo caught the waitress’s eye. She said something to the bartender who reached for the rum.
“You have a pretty nice deal here,” Eddo observed to Dowd. “Fly in, schmooze a bit. Make a couple of speeches. Go back to your embassy.”
“In St. Kitts,” Dowd supplied.
“I can see how you wouldn’t want to mess it up,” Eddo said.
Dowd nodded. “It’s not a bad gig.”
“Good career move?”
Dowd eyed Eddo with the first real spark of personality the consul had shown so far. “Fucking career backwater,” he said.
“So how’d you end up here?” Eddo probed.
“The usual,” Dowd said. The waitress brought his third Cuba libre. He didn’t immediately drink but shook it so that the ice cubes clattered together. “Didn’t keep my pecker at home.”
“Hooker?” Eddo asked.
“Ambassador’s wife.” Dowd inhaled a mouthful.
“Worth it?” Eddo indicated the restaurant, the island, the whole fucking career backwater.
“Nah.” Dowd gave a funny little laugh.
The man was a borracho but probably the kind that always stayed just this side of drunk.
“So,” Eddo said. “You want to be the famous guy in the newspaper who caught El Toro and got the million dollar bounty? Or the guy whose diplomatic career peaked in Antigua?”
“You asshole,” Dowd said and Eddo knew he had him.
Chapter 80
The day 44Gg449M11 had designated was the first overcast day since Eddo had arrived in Antigua. Tropical Storm Alice was blowing through the Gulf, according to the news, and Antigua expected to feel the fringes.
Eddo wasted away the morning cruising the shops on the street that ran parallel to the Falmouth Harbor Marina, feeling as if time was running through his fingers like sand. He was almost certain that Antigua was Site 4 and that Wibley was in Gomez Mazzo’s pocket. But if he was right, had Wibley warned off Gomez Mazzo? Had the meeting been canceled in a way that bypassed the postings website? Was Eddo spinning his wheels while there were a dozen things he could be doing in Mexico City to get ready for Luz coming in just two days? His frustration level hit a record high as he loitered in an over-priced trinket shop.
Several people came and went from the marina gate. It was run like a privada housing development. Those coming in had to show some sort of identification or were met at the gate and signed in as a guest. Beyond the gate, only a few enormous yachts could be seen. The rest were masked by a tall privacy fence. Falmouth had been built for discretion.
The sky darkened as Eddo whiled away the time within sight of the marina gate. If Sheba was there Eddo was sure the meeting would be held on board; Gomez Mazzo would want to show off. Hugo would have to present himself at the gate and be met. On the off chance that the meeting was somewhere else in Antigua, Gomez Mazzo would have to leave the marina.
Tropical Storm Alice hit with a vengeance right after noon. Rain slashed down like the last judgment and Eddo took refuge in the sandwich
shop where Dowd was supposed to meet him at 2:00 pm.
The place was decorated in a style Eddo thought of as British plantation, with fake palm frond fans turning overhead and a lot of mahogany and rattan. He stretched out lunch with dessert and coffee that he didn’t want. Just as he checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, two burly uniformed Antiguan cops walked into the restaurant, looked around the place and made for his table.
“Identification, please,” one of them said.
Eddo stood and handed over his passport.
The found the picture page, studied it and then glared at Eddo. “Eduardo Cortez?”
“Yes,” Eddo said. The two cops hadn’t so much as looked at anyone else in the restaurant.
The cop flipped through the passport some more, then coolly pocketed it. “Your passport doesn’t have the proper entry visa,” the cop said.
The other cop yanked Eddo around by one arm and slapped handcuffs around Eddo’s left wrist.
“Hey, wait a minute--.”
The cop was built like a mountain. Eddo’s right arm joined the left behind his back and the handcuffs clicked shut. The old collarbone injury throbbed.
“Resisting arrest,” the cop said. “Passport fraud. Illegal entry.”
With a hand under each of his arms, the cops manhandled Eddo out the door of the restaurant as the patrons and servers gawked. “Send his bill to the ministry,” one of the cops said and then they were outside in the rain.
“Listen, look at the passport,” Eddo said as they shoved him down the sidewalk toward a small white police van parked a block from the marina gate. The rain poured out of a drab gray sky. Water sluiced down the back of Eddo’s neck and soaked his shirt. He stepped in a puddle as the cops barreled along and his shoes squelched noisily. “There’s been no fraud. Got my passport stamped at the airport.”