CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pete Von Karmenn paced across the small room of the dusty hovel of a boarding house that he had taken in the El Mariachi section of Hermosillo. He had found the place the day after the room he had rented on the north side of town was bombed and went up in smoke. His old habit of changing rooms after checking in had paid off. Someone wanted him dead and surely thought that they had succeeded. That had been weeks ago. He had no idea who had tried to kill him. His only thought was to lay low a while and figure it out on his own. The less contact he had with anyone else, the better.
Pete’s natural dark complexion, coal black hair and fluency in Spanish had allowed him to blend in. He had told the owner of the small boarding house that he was a writer and just needed a quiet place at a reasonable price. The owner seemed to go for Pete’s story, allowing him a cheaper rate if he paid by the week. Pete paid two weeks in advance, three times, not wanting any more contact with other Mexicans than necessary. He had taken the time to trace the movements and learn the habits of Miguel Sanchez, his last ‘business’ contact before the bombing. He tracked him from his office in the militia section of the Sonoran State office building in the middle of Hermosillo. He observed him at his home in a comfortable area in west Hermosillo. He watched Sanchez play with his little boy and girl out in their yard and watched him holding his wife late in the evenings on the patio at the rear of their home. One night, he crept up to a window and listened as Miguel and Lourdes Sanchez made love. Pete grew confident in knowing that he could take out Miguel Sanchez any time he wanted. And if he learned that it was Sanchez who tried to kill him, Lourdes Sanchez would be a widow as surely as the sun brought heat to the desert.
But in watching Sanchez, tracking his every move, he came to believe that it was not Sanchez who was responsible for the bombing. The two had met and Pete had closed the deal on the shipment of 700 MX21 pistols from Mesquite Manufacturing, Inc. of Stillwater, Oklahoma, USA to the Departmento de la Milicia, in care of Sr. Miguel Sanchez. Sanchez had wired 175,000 USD to the bank account that Pete had directed. It seemed neat and clean at the time and Pete was looking forward to getting home. Then the bomb intended for him lit up the night sky of Hermosillo like it was Cinco de Mayo.
Now it was time to hold Miguel’s feet to the fire.
Miguel left his office at three o’clock in the afternoon as usual. He got into his 2000 Subaru station wagon, started the engine, and pulled out into traffic on Avenida Sonora in downtown Hermosillo.
At the first intersection, he felt a hard cylinder of steel press firmly against the back of his head and heard the voice of Pete Von Karmenn speaking in perfect Spanish. “Hola, mi amigo. Bievenido a tu peor pesadilla.” Welcome to your worst nightmare.
“Oooooohh,” Sanchez exclaimed. “Pedro Von Karmenn. Estas vivo!”
“You’re damn right I am alive, Miguel. And that’s more than I can say for you if you don’t do precisely what I tell you,” said Pete. In the preceding days, Von Karmenn had searched Sanchez’ car while he was at work. He knew that Sanchez carried no weapons, either on his person or in his car.
“But of course. I’m so glad… I thought you were dead. You must believe me,” said Sanchez.
“Drive to Jardin Juarez at Sonora and Benito Juarez. Pull over in the parking lot. If you make any sudden moves, I will scatter your brains all over your windshield. Do I make myself clear, Miguel?”
“Si, Don Pedro.” Sanchez turned back to the east and drove directly toward the park. He turned off of Sonora and pulled into a parking space under an Acacia tree at a secluded end of the parking lot. There were few people about. Several boys in their early teens were kicking a soccer ball in the middle of the field, and two young mothers with their toddlers were sitting on a bench at the far side.
“Don’t move,” Pete said as he exited the car from the back, skipped around the back of the car and to the front passenger’s seat. Once inside, his eyes drilled into those of Miguel Sanchez. “Who tried to kill me?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “But I am glad they did not succeed.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Miguel.” Pete said.
“I’m not bullshit you, Don Pedro. You are good man. We make good deal.” Sanchez’ eyes were pleading honesty. But Von Karmenn wasn’t sure.
“Tell me what you know,” he ordered.
“The Capitán General of the Sonora Milicia, Capitán Juan Luis Lopez ordered the shipment to be released to some hombres as soon as it arrived. They were supposed to go to our soldiers. But some other men took the guns,” Sanchez said.
“Who were these other hombres?” asked Pete.
“I don’t know, Don Pedro. I really don’t. But I think they were Sinaloa,” Sanchez said. “I’m sorry. I overheard Capitán Lopez on the phone. He made much money selling the guns.”
“Why do you think they were Sinaloa?”
“Because I hear Capitán Lopez. He call the man el Lobo on the phone. Lobo is el jefe for Sinaloa in Sonora. He is the boss,” explained Sanchez.
“Okay, look, Miguel,” said Pete. “I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself. I want to know where this ‘Lobo’ is located. And I want to know where those guns are now.”
“Maybe I can do that, Don Pedro. Maybe,” said Sanchez.
“Well, let me put it this way, Miguel. I’ve been around town here since I saw you last. I haven’t left Hermosillo. But I have gotten to know a lot about you… and your wife, Lourdes… and your son, Carlos… and your little girl, Soledad. I know where you live, Miguel. I’ve been there. Do you know what I am saying to you, Miguel?” asked Pete.
Miguel looked at Von Karmenn with genuine fear reflected in his eyes. “Si, Don Pedro. But I will help you. Please do not harm my family. I will help you.”
“Give me your cell phone,” Pete said.
Miguel handed it to him. Pete removed the battery and tossed it under his seat.
He said, “I have your cell phone number. When you get home replace your battery… it’s under the seat. You still have my number?”
“Si,” answered Miguel. “I have it from before.”
“By this time tomorrow, I want you to call me. I want you to tell me where I can find Lobo. And I want to know what he did with those guns,” Pete ordered.
“I will do my best, Don Pedro. I will try,” said Sanchez.
“Don’t try, Miguel. Do it. Get me that information. If you do, I will take care of you. If you don’t… well, we don’t want Carlos and Soledad to grow up without a father, do we?” he asked.
“I will help you, Don Pedro,” Miguel pleaded.
“Now, I’m going to get out. You leave the way we came. Don’t stop and fish around for your phone battery. You don’t need it now. But you call me by this time tomorrow.” Pete placed his pistol in the waistband of his jeans behind his back where it was covered by his denim jacket. He got out of the car and looked back inside, directly into the eyes of Miguel Sanchez. “Do not disappoint me, Miguel,” he said.
“I will not, Don Pedro. I call you tomorrow.”
Miguel Sanchez backed out of his parking place and drove out onto the street. Pete Von Karmenn watched him leave, wondering if his plan would work.
The Prosecution of General Hastings Page 18