Far South

by David Enrique Spellman

  Lunchtime traffic. This was no car chase. All I had to do was to make sure I got through the same sets of lights behind the Passat. We followed the direction that Pedrito had taken on foot. The flow got quicker as we approached the bridge and then I saw Pedrito and Maria sitting at a table in a café at the end of the main drag, close to the bridge. I saw the Arab raise a hand as he drove by. Pedrito gave me the hard stare. Maria, in big black shades, turned her bruised face away. I nodded to Pedrito. I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen them, or that I didn’t know who they were. They had to think of this as a coincidence: their man, the Arab, five cars ahead of me, quite by chance, as we all make our merry way to lunch on a normal working day in Ciudad Azul.

  Would Pedrito call the Arab on his cell phone?

  I pulled a hard right on the other side of the bridge and hoped that Pedrito would see me turn off the main drag and not go the same way as their Arab buddy in the Passat. I headed up the side streets in the direction of the baroque town clock. If the Arab was going up Route 60, maybe I could still catch up with him. I made the clock tower, pulled out left at a green light, and crossed three lanes onto the main highway east. The Arab would be well ahead of me now if he was driving down 60. Why did I care to follow him? The car switch, Pedrito, the direction the Passat was taking. I was on the hill going out of town past the nightclubs and hotels. I got stuck behind a truck that had all kinds of metal junk teetering and dangling over the edges of the rickety plywood box that was jerry-rigged onto the flatbed. If the Passat was on this road, I was a long way behind it. It could turn off anywhere.

  I managed to get by the truck and after a few kilometers reached the broad junction of 60 and 16. I swung onto 16 just because it was a smaller road and it wasn’t going to San Sebastian where Arenas lived. It was the road to San Pedro, the direction of my father’s house. I believe in intuition. Sometimes it worked. Near to El Arroyo there was a towable roadside snack bar with a gaudy sausage sign fixed to its roof. Pedrito’s Passat was parked next to it and a white GM truck with a closed cab and matching white box behind was parked parallel to the blue VW. The Arab was at the counter chatting to the sausage man and maybe the truck driver. He might have been an Arab, too. He wasn’t eating and nobody was looking my way. I kept my foot on the gas and kept the two Arabs in sight out of the sliver of an eye as I passed and then again in the rearview mirrors. A few kilometers down the road, I swung off left onto a dirt road and turned the car around in the driveway of a farm property so that the nose of the Ford was pointed back toward 16 again. The dust settled around the car. The sun blazed on the hood. I kept the a/c on and hoped the engine wouldn’t overheat. I waited. I waited for fifteen minutes; and then the Passat, followed by the white truck, went by on 16. I got the Ford in gear and pulled out onto the road. Not a lot of traffic. Lunchtime: siesta time. I could see the truck and the Passat on the slope that went down again toward the lakeside hotels and nightclubs and casinos at the northeast end of the lake. I kept a sensible distance behind the vehicles and one eye on the rearview mirror in case Pedrito, or one of his goons, should appear behind me.

  The Passat and the truck kept on going past the end of the lake and out into the rolling hills toward San Pedro. Thirteen kilometers into the hills, very close to my father’s house, they turned off right. I slowed the Ford to a stop at the junction and then waited for a few minutes for them to get well ahead of me. Then I turned onto the dirt road. It was full of ruts and rocks and washboard cambers and I made slow progress. I figured that the truck would have to make slow progress, too. I breasted a rise and caught sight of the two vehicles just as they turned down a dirt driveway toward a small property perched on a terrace on the hillside below.

  I pulled up behind a granite outcrop, did a k-turn to get the Ford aiming out of there, then pulled over onto the dry grass next to the dirt road. I turned off my cell phone. I got out of the car. This was stupid and dangerous. I could hear Rangel’s voice in my ear. The still air must have been well above forty degrees by now. I went around to the passenger side and opened the glove compartment. I pocketed a small set of binoculars. I shifted the hip holster and my .45 caliber Colt automatic to the back of my belt.

  I climbed up onto the hot granite boulders, the mica glistening in the bright sunlight. I peeked over the top of the rough rock and brought up the binoculars. There were two buildings on the property: an old thatched-roof quincé structure that might have sheltered animals at one time; next to it was a modern storage shed made up of an open girder frame with a corrugated roof. Three black SUVs were on the dirt parking lot with a number of Pedrito’s goons in attendance. Pedrito’s Passat was parked close to the old thatched barn. The driver of the white GM truck was reversing his rig under the corrugated-roofed garage. Maybe they had Fischer in the back of the white truck. Already in the open-sided garage, there was a big flatbed truck with a canvas awning. Two men wearing sporty tracksuits were leaning against one of the framing pillars. One of the men was Pablo Arenas. The other was his young nephew from the robbery all those years ago. Two weapons, assault rifles, were propped against the pillars beside them.

  The two Arabs got out of the white truck and two of the goons joined them and Arenas and his nephew in the shade. They all lit up cigarettes, chatted and laughed together. The two Arabs came out of the garage after about ten minutes. They got in the Passat.

  I slid down off the granite. If Pedrito had called the Arab on a cell phone and warned him to look out for a black Ford, it would be better that I should make myself scarce. Which I did. I got back in the car, tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat, got the car in gear and tore down the dirt track back toward Route 60, raising a lot of dust bucking over washboard ruts and sliding by boulders. I had enough distance between me and the Arabs so that I could get over rises and dips and between rocky outcrops and tree stands to keep well out of their sight if they drove at a sensible speed for the road they were on. I wasn’t driving at such a sensible speed. I reached the junction with 16 and – just about head on – another black SUV pulled into the dirt road. I hit the brakes. My Ford fishtailed through the dust. I turned into the skid, went sideways across the road and fetched up to a stop parallel to the big black Dodge with tinted windows. The driver’s side window on the SUV slid down. It was impossible to see who was in the passenger seat through the tinted windshield and because of the height and angle of the Dodge cab relative to my Ford.

  My hand was shaking. I pressed on my own window button.

  I looked up into the lenses of mirror shades poised below perfectly styled white hair which offset the tanned and smooth complexion that comes from deep relaxation beside swimming pools surrounded by beautiful women, all of whom would be more than happy, I was sure, to give Sandro Casares a deeply satisfying massage. That’s what I imagined.

  ‘You should drive a little slower, my friend,’ Casares said. ‘It’s dangerous to drive these country roads like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m in a hurry. My wife’s in labor.’

  ‘Wish her the best for me,’ Casares said. ‘And your new child.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  The tinted window slid back up.

  I restarted the Ford and eased past the Dodge.

  I stopped at the junction with Route 16 and in my rearview mirror I watched the black rear end of the Dodge disappear over a ridge toward the property with the white van and the flatbed truck and the SUVs and the heavily armed heavies. I was still shaking. I have to admit that.

  Casares wouldn’t know me from Adam, would he? And if those guys had Gerardo Fischer… it didn’t bear thinking about… my job was done. Maybe it really was time to fly to Miami. Maybe I should be listening to Rangel. And my father.

  I thought: Well, a sensible man would drive back to Ciudad Azul. Because yes, right now, I know, I’m in a world of shit. But what I did was to pull onto 16 and take a right toward San Pedro assuming that the Passat, which was going to be ri
ght behind me any second, would head back left toward Ciudad Azul. I put my foot on the gas and drove for a kilometer or so, pulled off the blacktop at the next dirt road and waited. I waited half an hour. The Passat didn’t pass by. I drove back down 16 to the little country road. A few kilometers up this dirt was the property where all those SUVs were parked, and one of them belonged to Sandro Casares, the man in the picture that was in the folder that belonged to Gerardo Fischer.

  Most of the way over the bumps and the rocks and the ruts I prayed that none of the goons up there would be coming to meet me on this very narrow dirt road. And especially not Sandro Casares. This was a stupid and foolish thing to do but I honestly believed that I couldn’t leave Gerardo Fischer out there with those men if indeed he was out there with those men, which I didn’t know. I reached the point on the dirt road where I had to hide the Ford. I left it relatively well hidden behind a stand of pines. I grabbed the binoculars again, locked my jacket in the car, eased the safety off the .45, and made my way through the shady stand of pines and back toward the property. I ran across the road and climbed in among the granite rocks again. It was quiet down there. Only two of Pedrito’s goons were on watch. The rest of the crew must have been keeping to the shade. Maybe Mr Casares was having a quiet chat with them. I could make out movement beneath the corrugated roof. Whatever was in the white GM truck, they were unloading and putting the boxes into the rear compartments of the black SUVs. At least it wasn’t Fischer. Maybe this was some kind of dope deal. Silly me. What was I doing interfering in this? And when it seemed that all of the dope, or whatever it was, had been transferred from the white truck into the SUVs, the goons began to unload long wooden cases from the big flatbed truck. It took two men to carry each case to the back of the white truck. I didn’t really want to know what was in the wooden boxes. I was witnessing a simple exchange of merchandise and risking my life for nothing. Gerardo Fischer was not here.

  Then my father walked out from under the thatched roof. He was arm in arm with Sandro Casares. Fuck. This was definitely very bad news. Maybe it was the kind of news you’re supposed to get on Friday 13th. I wished that I wasn’t witnessing this. Sandro Casares steered my father under the corrugated shelter. Casares said something to Arenas, who then said something to his nephew who then opened up one of the wooden boxes that was on the ground next to the white GM truck. Casares bent over and took an assault rifle out of the open case. A few more words from Arenas and his nephew went over to the cab of the flatbed truck and came back with a curved magazine that Casares slotted into the assault rifle.

  Down on the terrace, in front of the garage, Casares lifted the assault rifle to his shoulder and fired off a series of single rounds towards the hillside. A dog began to bark. Casares seemed to be amused by this. He and Pa laughed together. Casares adjusted the rifle and let off three bursts of automatic fire that tore up a bush on the hillside between them and me. The dog’s barking turned furious.

  It was then that I caught sight of the two goons who were patrolling the hillside. One of them had the stock of a pump-action, twelve-gauge shotgun propped on his hip as he struggled to control a black and tan Doberman on its short leash. He yelled at the dog and it quieted down. It was obviously a well-bred animal. It was obedient.

  But maybe the wind changed at that moment. The dog began to strain at the leash and bark again. It seemed to want to drag its handler in my direction. The Doberman was all muscle and bone. The other goon looked up toward the rocks where I was lying down with the binoculars to my eyes. He lifted an Uzi up with a casual hand that had been hanging down by his thigh and cradled it lovingly in front of his belly. I slipped backwards off the surface of the boulder, turned away from the rocks and ran toward the little stand of pines. It was cooler running through the trees. I stumbled over the twisted roots but I kept my feet long enough to reach my car.

  I started the engine. The air conditioning whirred into life. I hit the gas and peeled out. I have an aversion to dogs. The big Ford lurched forward onto the dirt road and I gunned it hard and bounced it down the slope back toward Route 16. I guess it didn’t really matter whether the goons had seen the Ford or not. Casares had seen it, and my face, and so had my old man if he’d been behind the tinted windows in the passenger side of the black SUV. I wasn’t exactly sure where that left me with regard to my options for the next few days. Rangel’s idea to make myself scarce made a lot of sense. I was thankful for the cloud of dust rolling up behind the rear tires. I drove hard and fast for Ciudad Azul. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to go home, or to the office, in the next few days.

  I could, I suppose, have called the police and told them that I had witnessed what might have been a deal with weapons that could have been connected with the heist from the military airbase that had happened a few days back. Maybe the same day that Gerardo Fischer had gone missing. Perhaps that would have been a sensible option; except it would have been very definitely turning my father in to the law. I couldn’t do that. Not directly. Not even I could stoop to that. What had this weapons deal to do with my investigation into Gerardo Fischer’s disappearance?

  As I tooled down the highway back toward Ciudad Azul, I got out my cell phone and turned it on again. I called the number of the Hotel Cristal in Córdoba. I could use a hotel room as a base of operations while I considered my options. I glanced in the rearview mirror. No one was following me. Maybe they didn’t care. I’d seen some kind of deal go down. So what? If I kept my nose out of this, Casares and my father would likely forget all about it. Maybe. But I couldn’t be sure. I got reception. I booked a room for a week. I figured I could claim for it on my expenses for the Fischer job. I needn’t stay there all the time but I thought that I’d be relatively safe at the Hotel Cristal. I’d be safe as long as it wasn’t owned or under the protection of Sandro Casares. I turned my cell phone off. My old man knew my number. It might be a way for Casares and his friends to track me down. I kept driving south. I needed to keep myself off the map.

  Extract from the casebook of Juan Manuel Pérez

  January 14th 2006

  Hours: 14:30 to 21:00

  I woke in my hotel room after a fitful night obsessed with the idea that my father was involved with Arenas, Matas and Casares. And I’d been seen. I was sure that if Arenas, Matas and Casares considered me a problem, which no doubt they would, they’d want to resolve it by ensuring my silence. I spent an unquiet morning at the Hotel Cristal, doing nothing but worrying, showering, shaving, and trying to distract myself with bad movies on cable TV. I waited until after lunch before I called Enrique Sandino from the hotel telephone booths. He was at his nightclub, the Dark Moon.

  ‘I want to come by,’ I said.

  ‘To what do I owe the honor?’

  ‘Maybe you can help me out.’

  ‘I can?’ Sandino said.

  ‘I want to go away for a few days to relax. Maybe you can give me some advice.’

  ‘What kind of advice?’

  ‘Advice I can pay for. Substantial advice. Something to alter my mood, relax me.’

  ‘Juanma… come around. I’m in the office.’

  It took me a half hour to get from the hotel in Córdoba to the outskirts of Ciudad Azul. The roads were quiet. Siesta time. Bright sunlight. I got off the highway and threaded my way through the road works and down onto the underpass that brought me onto the lakeshore. The sun sparkled on the flat water. This end of the lake is surrounded by high-rise hotels, time-share condos, beach bars, and dance clubs. They’d attract some action as people got up from their siestas but they wouldn’t come alive until after sunset. Long after sunset. The Dark Moon was prime property on the water; cinderblock structure, concrete stucco to make it look like adobe, and black light neon sign that would come on around midnight. The straw-roofed terrace bar on the verandah was deserted. I eased the black Ford onto a narrow side street and parked it in the shade. I knocked on the featureless metal door at the side of the club. One of Clara’s flyers had
been taped to the flat surface: the blurred features of Gerardo Fischer, and her appeal, and the phone number that wasn’t mine. One of Sandino’s bouncers, dressed in traditional black, unlocked the door. He stood aside for me. I was obviously expected. The concrete corridor stank of stale smoke and cleaning fluid. Sandino’s office door was open. He sat at his desk, his wire-framed glasses on the end of his nose, his sleek hair oiled back against his brown and balding skull.

  ‘Juan Manuel,’ he said.

  He got up, removed his glasses, and we exchanged a cheek kiss.

  ‘So… why here, why now?’ Sandino said.

  ‘If I was to throw a party and I wanted something special for my guests what could I find in town?’

  ‘What kind of question is this?’

  ‘It’s a curious question.’

  ‘Are you throwing a party?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why bother your head?’

  ‘It’s personal business.’

  ‘How personal?’

  ‘It’s about my father.’

  ‘What’s your father got to do with anything?’ Sandino said.

  ‘This is what I want to know,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Sandino said.

  ‘I’m not sure… This is upsetting… I worry about what he might be getting himself into.’