By then, her legal and financial front was perfect, and the queen of drug trafficking on the Strait, the czarina of drugs—as Madrid’s El País described her—had bought so much political and police protection that she was virtually invulnerable. So nearly invulnerable, in fact, that the Ministry of the Interior leaked her dossier to the press in an attempt to make public through rumor and journalistic “background” what it couldn’t prove in court. But that strategy backfired; the newspaper stories written from that background material turned Teresa Mendoza into a legend: a woman thriving in a world of dangerous men.
From that point on, the rare photos taken of her, her rare appearances in public were always news. Paparazzi hounded her as much as they did the princesses of Monaco or some name-over-the-title movie stars, and there were always dozens of police complaints and even lawsuits against Teresa’s bodyguards for assault and battery against photographers. A stable of Transer Naga attorneys handled these distractions.
“So you’re writing a book about that creature.”
“I’m finishing it. Or almost.”
“Quite a character, isn’t she?” Cucho Malaspina—intelligent, bitchy—looked at me as he stroked his moustache. “I know her well.”
Cucho was an old friend of mine, from the days when I was a journalist and he was just beginning to make a name for himself writing a gossip column, contributing to the society pages, and appearing on evening TV talk shows. We had a conspiratorial respect for one another. Now he was a star, able to ruin a famous marriage with a dropped remark, a headline, a caption. Clever, creative, and nasty. The Guru of Gossip and Glamour—poison in a martini glass. It wasn’t true that he knew Teresa Mendoza, but he had moved in those circles—the Costa del Sol and Marbella were a profitable hunting ground for the pink press—and a few times he almost got close to her. But each time he’d been shown the door with a firmness that on one occasion, at least, led to a black eye. He’d filed a complaint with the San Pedro de Alcántara police when a bodyguard—whose description fit Pote Gálvez to a T—had smacked him when he tried to have a word with Teresa as she was leaving a restaurant in Puerto Banús. Good evening, señora. If it’s not too much trouble I’d like to ask you about . . . bam!
Apparently, it was too much trouble. So there were no answers, or further questions, or anything except that moustached gorilla blacking Cucho’s eye with professional expertise. Twittering birds, colored stars, the reporter on his ass on the sidewalk, car doors slamming, and the noise of expensive tires laying rubber. The Queen of the South glimpsed fleetingly as she made her stunning exit from a fashionable restaurant blah blah blah.
“A sure draw for the public’s insatiable thirst for scandal, imagine. ‘Inquiring minds want to know,’ right? A girl who creates a whole little underground empire in a matter of two or three years. An adventuress with all the ingredients: drugs, money, mystery. . . Always at a distance, protected by her bodyguards and her legend. The police unable to touch her, and her buying off half of southern Spain and a good bit of North Africa. The Koplowitz of drugs . . . Remember those millionaire sisters? . . . Well, the same thing, but gone over to the dark side. When that gorilla of hers, a fat guy with a face like Indio Fernández’, hit me, I’ve gotta tell you I was delighted. I lived two months on that! Then, when my lawyer asked for this incredible amount of money, which we never even dreamed of collecting, they paid in cash, my dear, in cash! I swear. We never got anywhere near the courthouse doors.”
“Is it true that she and the mayor were close?”
The malicious smile widened under the moustache.
“Tomás Pestaña? . . . Thick as thieves, those two,” he said as he sipped his orange juice. “Literally. Teresa was the golden goose for Marbella—charities, donations, investments. They met when she bought the land to build a house in Guadalmina Baja—lawns, gardens, pool, fountains, ocean views, the whole thing. But she filled it with books, too, as a matter of fact, because it so happens that the girl is practically an intellectual, did you know that? So they say. She and the mayor had dinner together often, or saw each other at the houses of mutual friends. Private meetings, bankers, builders, politicians, people like that . . .”
“Did they do business together?”
“Well, of course, my dear. Pestaña handed over a good deal of local control to her, and she always had a way of not making herself too conspicuous. Every time there was an investigation, agents and judges suddenly became uninterested and incompetent. So the mayor could hang out with her without upsetting anybody. It was very discreet, and very astute on the part of both, but especially her. Little by little she infiltrated city halls, the courts. . . . Even Fernando Bouvier, the governor of Málaga, was eating out of her hand. Everybody was making so much money that no one could do without her. That was what protected her, and gave her power.”
Power, he repeated. Then he smoothed out the wrinkles in his leather pants, lit a Dutch cigar, and crossed his legs. “The Queen,” he added, blowing cigar smoke into the room, “didn’t like parties. In all those years she’d gone to two or three, tops. She’d go late and leave early. She lived all shut up in her house, and sometimes she could be photographed from a distance, walking on the beach. She liked the ocean. People said that sometimes she went out with the crews that were running the drugs, like she used to do when she didn’t have a pot to piss in, but that was probably just part of the legend. Although she did like the water. She bought a big yacht, the Sinaloa, and would spend a lot of time on it, alone with the bodyguards and the crew. She didn’t travel much. She’d be spotted here and there occasionally. Mediterranean ports, Corsica, the Baleares, the Greek islands. That’s about it.
“I once thought we had her. . . . A paparazzo managed to sneak in with some concrete-layers who were working in the garden, and he got a couple of rolls—her on the terrace, at a window, things like that. The magazine that bought the pictures called me to write the text. But the story never came out. Somebody paid a fortune to block it, and the photographs disappeared. Abracadabra—poof ! It’s magic! They say it was handled by Teo Aljarafe in person. The good-looking lawyer. And he paid ten times what they were worth.”
“I remember that. . . . The photographer had some trouble.”
Cucho leaned over to knock the ashes off his cigar into the ashtray. He stopped in mid-movement. The wicked smile had become muted, knowing laughter.
“Trouble? . . . Oh my dear, don’t make me laugh. With Teresa Mendoza, that word is the world’s biggest understatement. The boy was a professional, a veteran, an expert at sniffing underwear and tracking down liaisons dangereuses . . . . Two weeks after the photos vanished, somebody broke into his apartment in Torremolinos, coincidentally with him in it at the time. Imagine! . . . After breaking, one by one, the fingers of both his hands, they cut him with a razor four times, apparently with no intention of killing him. . . . The news spread. Of course nobody ever again approached the house in Guadalmina, or even tried to get within twenty yards of that bitch.”
“Love affairs?” I asked, changing the subject.
He shook his head—absolutely none. Now we were back in his specialty.
“No love affairs, zip. At least so far as I could ever find out. And you know I have my sources. There was talk of a relationship with that lawyer, Teo Aljarafe. Classy, good-looking, and well enough off for most. Also a son of a bitch. They traveled together. But he wasn’t really her type. They probably fucked, you understand, but he wasn’t her type. Trust my bitch-on-a-hot-scent nose, my dear. I’d say her type was more like Patricia O’Farrell.”
“The O’Farrell girl,” Cucho went on, after getting himself another orange juice and saying hello to some friends on the way back, “was coke—I mean horse—of a different color. They were friends and partners, although they were as different as night and day. But they’d been together in prison. Quite a story, O’Farrell’s, huh? So promiscuous and all that. So perverse. And she was really classy. But under the designer outfits,
a lesbian slut. With all the vices, including this one—” Here, Cucho touched the side of his nose meaningfully. “Frivolous as hell, so it’s not easy to understand how those two, Sappho and Captain Morgan, could be together. Although the Mexicana ran the show, of course. It’s not possible to conceive of the O’Farrell clan’s black sheep putting that empire together all by herself.
“She was a dyke, and as out as they come. A cokehead like you wouldn’t believe. And that led to lots of gossip. . . . People say O’Farrell knocked the rough edges off the Mexicana, who practically didn’t know how to read and write. Whether that’s true or not, by the time I knew her she dressed and acted classy. She always wore good clothes: quiet, dark, simple—very elegant, very chic. You’re going to laugh, but one year we even included her in the nominations for the best-dressed list in Spain. Half seriously, I swear to God. And she made the list! Eighteenth or so. She was cute—not beautiful, but she knew how to make herself look smart.” He sat pensively, his smile distracted, and after a few seconds he shrugged. “There was clearly something between those two. I don’t know what they were—friends, lovers, what, but they were something. Very strange. Maybe that explains why the Queen of the South didn’t have many men in her life.”
The loudspeaker called Cucho’s flight. He looked at his watch and stood up, hanging his black bag over his shoulder. I got up, too, and we shook hands. Good to see you, I said. Have a good trip.
“I hope to read that book, if they don’t cut your balls off first,” said Cucho. He winked.
As he walked away, he added, “Then there’s the mystery, right? . . . What happened at the end with O’Farrell, and with the lawyer.” Cucho laughed. “What happened with all of them.”
It was a mild autumn, with cool nights and good business. Teresa Mendoza took a sip of the champagne cocktail she was holding and looked around. She was being observed, too, directly or surreptitiously, and there were whispered comments, murmurs, smiles that were sometimes admiring, sometimes uneasy. Lately, the media had paid a great deal of attention to her. Going over the coordinates of a mental plan, she imagined herself at the center of a complex web of money and power, full of possibility and also of danger.
She took another sip. Soft music, fifty select people, eleven o’clock at night. Over a black sea hung a yellow moon that looked as though it had been sliced in half horizontally, and it was mirrored in the Marbella inlet out there beyond the immense landscape twinkling with millions of lights. The living room was open to the garden on the side of the mountain, next to the Ronda highway. Access was controlled by security guards and municipal police. Tomás Pestaña, the host, in a white dinner jacket and red cummerbund, was moving from group to group, chatting, smiling, an enormous Havana cigar between the ringed fingers of his left hand, his eyebrows, as thick as a bear’s, arched in constant surprise and pleasure. He resembled nothing so much as the villain in a 1970s spy movie. A likable scoundrel. Thank you so much for coming, my dear. How nice. How very nice of you. Have you met so-and-so? . . . And what’s-his-name? . . .
That was Tomás Pestaña. He loved it. Loved to show off. Even show off Teresa, as though she were another proof of his success. A rare and dangerous trophy. Whenever someone asked him about her, he would affect a mysterious smile and shake his head knowingly: If I told you some of the things I’ve seen . . . “Everything that gives a man glamour or money is useful to me,” he had once said. And with Teresa, the one was intimately connected to the other. Because Teresa Mendoza didn’t just give a touch of exotic mystery to local society; she was also a horn of plenty. The latest operation calculated to win the mayor’s heart—recommended by Teo Aljarafe—included payment of a municipal debt that threatened Marbella with a scandalous embargo of its properties and untold political consequences. Not to mention that Pestaña—garrulous, ambitious, astute, voted into office more times than anyone since the days of Jesús Gil—loved to boast of his relationships at “special” moments, even if only for a select group of friends or associates, the way art collectors show off their private galleries, which hold masterpieces, acquired illicitly, that can’t be shown in public.
“Imagine a raid on this place tonight,” said Patty. She had a joint between her lips and was laughing, her third drink in hand. “Course, no cop would have the balls,” she added. “This is one mouthful that’d get stuck in his throat.”
“Well, there’s one cop here,” Teresa replied. “Nino Juárez.”
“I saw that cabrón.”
Teresa took another sip as she finished mentally counting. Three financiers. Four high-level developers. A couple of middle-aged English actors who lived in the Zone to avoid taxes back home. A movie producer with whom Teo Aljarafe had just entered a useful partnership, since the producer went bankrupt once a year and Teo was an expert in moving money through companies with losses—in this case, movies that flopped. The owner of six golf courses. Two governors. A Saudi millionaire down on his luck. A member of the Moroccan royal family whose luck was still running strong. The main stockholder in a large hotel chain. A famous fashion model. A singer who’d flown in from Miami in his own plane. A former minister of the treasury and his wife, who had once been married to a well-known actor. Three super-exclusive call girls, great beauties notorious for their very un-private love affairs with prominent politicians and millionaires . . . Teresa had talked for a while with the governor of Málaga and his wife—the wife had looked at her, half suspicious and half fascinated, the whole time, not opening her mouth, while Teresa and the governor agreed on the financing for an auditorium for the city’s cultural events and three shelters for drug addicts. She had chatted with two of the developers and then stepped aside for a brief, useful word with the member of the Moroccan royal family, a partner of mutual friends on both sides of the Strait; he gave her his card. You must come to Marrakesh. I have heard a great deal about you. Teresa nodded and smiled without making any promises. Híjole—she imagined what the guy had heard, and from whom. Then she and the golf-course owner, whom she knew slightly, exchanged a few pleasantries. “I have an interesting proposal,” he said. “I’ll call you.”
The singer from Miami was laughing in a nearby group, throwing his head back to show the chin he’d just had done by a famous plastic surgeon. “When I was a girl I was crazy about him,” Patty told her. “And look at him now. Sic transit . . .” Her eyes glittered, her pupils very dilated. “Want somebody to introduce us?” she suggested.
Teresa shook her head, her drink at her lips. “Spare me, Lieutenant. And watch it, you’ve had three already.”
“No, you spare me,” Patty retorted, not losing her good humor. “What a bore you are, nothing but work, your whole fucking puta life.”
Teresa looked around absentmindedly. The truth was, this wasn’t exactly a party, although the pretext was to celebrate the mayor’s birthday. It was a pure social ritual, a high mass, and held for no reason but to do business. “You have to go,” Teo Aljarafe had insisted; he was now talking to a group of financiers and their wives—ever polite, suave, attentive, a glass in his hand, his tall silhouette slightly stooped, his aquiline profile turned courteously toward the ladies. “Even if it’s just fifteen minutes, you’ve got to stop in,” he told her. “Pestaña looks at some things in a very elementary way—it’s black and white—and you can’t send regrets for an evening like this. Besides, it’s not just the mayor. With half a dozen Buenas noches and How are yous you can take care of a shitload of commitments. Open doors and grease the skids. Get the idea?”
“I’ll be back,” Patty was saying.
She’d put her empty glass down on a table and was walking away, toward the bar: high heels, back bare to the waist, in contrast to the austere little black dress Teresa was wearing, her only adornment a pair of earrings—simple pearls—and the silver semanario. On the way, Patty deliberately brushed against the back of a young woman who was chatting with some people, and the girl half turned to look at her. That cunt, Patty had said, flic
king her head when she’d first seen her.
Teresa, used to her friend’s provocative tone—sometimes Patty went too far on purpose when Teresa was around—shrugged. Too young for you, Lieutenant, she’d said. Young or not, replied Patty, in El Puerto she wouldn’t have gotten away from me if she’d sprouted wings. Of course, she added after looking at her thoughtfully, I was wrong about Edmond Dantès. She smiled too brightly when she said this.
And now Teresa, concerned, was watching Patty walk away through the guests: she was weaving a bit, although she might be able to hold one or two drinks more before the first visit to the bathroom to powder her nose. But it wasn’t a problem of drinking or snorting. Pinche Patty. Things were going from bad to worse with her, and not just tonight. As for Teresa, she’d had enough of this mingling, and she wanted to start thinking about going.
“Buenas noches.”
She’d seen Nino Juárez circling close by, studying her. Small, with his blond beard. Expensive clothes, no way to pay for them on his cop’s salary. They crossed paths from time to time, at a distance. It was Teo Aljarafe who took care of that one.
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