by Dan Slater
And now Miguel had to contend with this fucker from Televisa, Juaquín López-Dóriga, the famous TV news anchor in Nuevo Laredo. That morning, López-Dóriga reported that a man was reading a newspaper outside a café when he was killed. He didn’t say “Fito” on TV, but, to Miguel, it was the principle that mattered, the disrespect. López-Dóriga, Miguel had decided that morning, had to go. It hadn’t helped Miguel’s temper when he received a call from his ex-girlfriend Elsa Sepulveda, in which she taunted him for having lost his brother, and for killing the wrong guy in Laredo.
Now, at Fito’s funeral, sitting next to his mother, Miguel had second thoughts. Maybe it was his own love for his family, his wish to protect them from another loss. He also remembered a recent meeting in Monterrey, when he and Catorce and Lazcano met with the head of SIEDO—Mexico’s federal organized-crime unit. “Just keep the violence down,” the man had said, “and for godsakes keep it out of the news!”
If López-Dóriga, a high-profile TV anchor, died, it would not go unreported. No, it would go wide in the news. Miguel would catch a reprimand from Catorce and Lazcano, possibly a fatal one. The Chiefs already accused him of being too reactive.
Miguel hugged his mother, then got the attention of Meme Flores and shook his head: no.
Meme called Bart Reta and waved him off the job. Miguel accepted condolences, and headed back to work.
ON THE MEXICAN SIDE, WHERE Gabriel had been for most of January 2006, the Wolf Boys worked, and attended another Company party. Whereas Gabriel had once loathed doing jobs in Texas, he was now eager to get back. In the States, he was a more valued Company employee. In Mexico, he was just one of dozens of Wolf Boys willing to work.
At the Company party, in a raffle, Bart won a Mercedes C55 AMG, valued at $70,000. He gave it to Gabriel because Bart already had a bulletproof BMW M3, customized by the Company engineer.
Bart was being sent on big commission jobs, making a lot of money, and buying designer clothes and watches and video games by the bagful. He could only wear so much Valentino and Versace at one time; much of his booty went unused and unopened. He felt indebted to Gabriel for the older boy’s generosity in bringing him into this world. In a life where “home” was an abstract concept, a car was one’s biggest statement of identity. The Mercedes was a kind present, and an exceedingly difficult one for Gabriel to accept.
Their competitive relationship stretched back to their football days in Lazteca, when Bart was the tough little dude who loved to get tackled and Gabriel hoped to do the tackling. Their brief and brilliant trajectory, entailing large shifts in experience, was ripe for internal tension. How delicate was their system of reciprocity. How easily the Wolf Boys were irked when the unstated terms of their goodwill shifted beneath them.
Gabriel still felt he had the upper hand in his circle of Wolf Boys. He had more experience. He was the leader. But he also wondered: Why was Bart going on more missions with Miguel? Why was Bart making more money?
Money, in their world, was the strongest kind of power. One expressed that power through benevolence. On a personal and communal level, the powerful paid it forward. A cared-for constituency, a happy family: These ends justified the means. Gabriel made a weekly salary of $500, and earned about $10,000 per hit—sometimes more. He gave most of it to his brothers, Christina, his mother, aunts, and friends. He paid for everything at clubs. Having money to waste was the ultimate mark of success, and many needy enablers surrounded him.
His mother, La Gaby, made extra cash by buying used cars and having her second husband fix them at his garage. A couple of years earlier, gone on the roches and furious over being kicked out of the house after La Gaby found his prized Mini-14 rifle in the closet, Gabriel took a baseball bat to a Malibu she hoped to renovate and sell. But now, thanks to him, she could buy several used Malibus and fix them up. In middle school, Gabriel had felt unequal to the girls he liked because he couldn’t buy them things. Now he loved seeing Christina wear new clothes thanks to him, and his younger brothers enjoy luxuries like video games and snacks at school. He loved seeing his mother and aunts “out their gutter”—becoming debt-free—because of him. La Gaby made the usual squawks. Where did this come from? Leave that lifestyle! But she never turned the money down. That only happened in movies.
At one point in Gabriel’s young life, La Gaby had hopes for her second boy, as she did for all her boys. But each dream, one after the next, grew far-fetched, and a painful and familiar distance divided her from her sons. She knew the signs. They all did. La Gaby and her friends on Lincoln Street could forecast delinquency just as mothers on Park Avenue intuited Ivy League admission. A faded haircut was ominous, bald worse. It started with tattoos, sagging pants, staying out late at parties. La Gaby saw the woman down the block put a pool table in her driveway so the kids had somewhere to gather at night. Smart, she thought, and bought an old computer, hoping it would help keep her boys inside. A computer, she’d heard, was what kids needed to succeed nowadays. And still she wondered where her car went, where her son was. And still she found bullets and random gun parts in the closet.
The tumble from where he was to where he ended up was quick, the transformation almost instant: alternatives, boot camp, TYC. La Gaby shrugged, breathed. It was all she could do. What could she do? La Gaby’s new man was about to “throw” another twelve months behind bars on another trafficking case. IRS notices piled up; a final warning came: The younger boy sold his work papers to an immigrant.
She yelled loudly. She really did. But now Gabriel could give her in a week what she made in six months. The money was beyond what any brother, boyfriend, or husband ever generated from drugs, immigrants, or money laundering.
Gabriel stopped by the house in all-black clothes, staying only long enough to drink a glass of water, as if somebody was after him: “I’m a soldier, Mom.” He came back a month later, his body thickened by the weights: “I’m a commander, Mom.”
“A commander of what?” she said. “Someone’s going to come to the house and kill me because of you!”
“Here’s ten g’s. Rent a new house.”
“Dios te lo oiga,” she said—God will deal with you—and then pocketed the cash and backed away.
AS THE WINTER OF 2006 wore on, ambition consuming him, jealousy and suspicion began to take hold in Gabriel, in spite of (or because of) his power and status in the Company. He often stayed in hotels now, and Christina occasionally came to Mexico and stayed with him. A male classmate from United High kept calling the phone that Gabriel had given her. Each time the phone rang he grabbed her from behind, made her answer it, then took the phone away to hear what the guy said, then put it back to her ear and told her how to respond.
“Hola, Christina.”
“Hola.”
“Qué pasa?”
“Nada.”
“Tienes plans today?”
“Pienso que no.”
“Want to meet?”
“Porque?”
“To grab a bite to eat?”
“Comiendo o cojiendo?” Gabriel would have Christina ask. Eating or fucking? Because the words sounded the same. And then Gabriel ripped the phone away to hear the answer.
But if he was jealous over Christina, he was also distant from her. He followed the example of his Company elders by keeping Christina on the perimeter. He visited her when he could but excluded her from much of his life. He was busy. But he was also a thug, and there was nothing good for her about going out in public with his kind.
From her vantage, all Christina saw was love slipping away, a relationship reverting from serious to casual.
“Why haven’t I met your mom?” she asked.
“The house is old.”
“I don’t care. Take me.”
“But the paint is peeling.”
“Take me.”
Gabriel never took Christina to 207 Lincoln Street; Christina had only met his brothers. But he did frequently mention “mi padrino Cero Dos”—my godfather Zero Tw
o—referring to the call sign for Meme Flores. To her, it was as if he wanted to impress her with his connections and be secretive at the same time.
Christina, nearly seventeen, tried to remain ignorant, as her own mother had done with regard to her father’s illicit activities. Gabriel had spent the previous summer in jail. But the specifics were unclear. He was the driver on the Bruno Orozco hit. Wences pulled the trigger. There was a rumor about what happened a few days before Orozco. Gabriel supposedly rang the doorbell of a Sinaloa-allied gangster named Pompoño, then shot Pompoño’s thirteen-year-old son by mistake. But people said lots of nonsense in Laredo.
Growing up among the churchgoing devout, Christina had been a vehicle of faith. Believe in a better life, and love unconditionally. But that vehicle was now parked on a steep incline. She was desperate for the affection and attention she never got from her own father. The world just disappeared when she was with her guy. Gabriel was gentle in bed, not rough. But sometimes he couldn’t get erect. He’d be “all downer,” and say: “Sorry love, a friend slipped something in my drink.” And when he said it a third time, and a fourth time, Christina thought: This one does pills. And so they’d just embrace until he had to run off again.
But during those brief interludes, as he sank into that droop-eyed haze, he confided private thoughts. “Soy un joto para matar,” he said. I’m a fag to kill. The pills weren’t just for recreation; they were necessary, and their necessity worried him. He loved the money and power. But was he a true Wolf Boy, a real Company man?
Yes, he still believed he was, and he would soon prove it.
23
I’m a Good Soldier!
After crossing the border on foot with one of his Mexican Mafia brothers, his carnal, a black Suburban with an assault rifle holstered in PVC pipe screwed to the center console picked up Rene Garcia and the carnal and drove them to a horse ranch on the outskirts of Nuevo Laredo, where three dozen Zeta soldiers milled around eight more black Suburbans. In the middle, Miguel Treviño relaxed in the passenger seat of a white Porsche SUV, door open, his foot on the rail, as he flipped through a binder of pictures.
Minutes later, Miguel emerged from the Porsche and announced that it was time to eat. Several men left and returned with a truck full of sodas and parilladas, platters of Mexican barbecue. Everyone ate off the cars like a tailgate party. Afterward, Miguel told Rene and the carnal to get in the back of the Porsche. Don’t worry, he said, he paid $200,000 to bulletproof the vehicle.
They didn’t get far before they stopped on the side of the road to consult with a group of Zeta soldiers returning from a raid. One soldier had taken nonlethal gunfire and was bleeding through bandages. Miguel instructed that he be brought to the Company hospital.
When they arrived at a second ranch, Miguel returned his attention to Rene and the carnal.
Rene didn’t know the purpose of this trip. He’d come along on the instructions of the Mexican Mafia leader in Laredo, the Black Hand. Now he was face-to-face with the man who ordered the death of his brother, Moises, in the parking lot of Torta-Mex. Rene’s carnal spoke up: He said they’d been sent by the Black Hand to collect $10,000 and 200 kilos of cocaine.
Miguel asked the carnal, “So you’re now in charge of the cuadros?”—referring to “bricks,” or kilos, of coke.
“Yes,” said the carnal.
Miguel sent for the $10,000, but told the carnal that he could give only 40 kilos of coke, not 200.
Rene began to understand what was behind the plot to murder his brother. Seeking to advance his station, the Black Hand probably gave up Rene’s brother, who’d been stealing from Miguel. The $10,000 was either compensation for setting up Moises, or funding for further murder operations in Laredo. In addition to the money, Miguel was going to front the Black Hand “a test load” of cocaine, but wanted to limit his initial exposure to $400,000 worth of coke (40 kilos) rather than $2 million (200 kilos).
Miguel turned to Rene and asked, “And you’re in charge of the quiebres?”—the killings.
Rene didn’t know what Miguel was talking about. So Rene said yes, because Miguel gave off a distinct sense of: I’ll kill you now, just give me reason. It must be easy, he thought, to be as confident as Miguel when you’re surrounded by bodyguards and a city of soldiers at your command. But Rene decided he would do whatever was asked of him until he had the chance to kill Miguel, and then kill Bart Reta, the ones responsible for his brother’s death.
Miguel returned to his binder and flipped through pages of photos. “Forty of them,” he mumbled, referring to the people in Laredo he wanted killed. He reeled off a few names: Mike Lopez, Chuy Resendez, Mackey Flores. “Do you know them?” Miguel asked Rene.
“No,” Rene said.
“Do you know Moises Garcia?” Miguel asked.
Was Miguel mocking him? Rene wondered.
“No,” Rene said.
“Really? But wasn’t he with the Mexican Mafia?”
DUST, DUST, DUST: IT CAME in through the windows, a soft invasion of dissolution filling the vehicle as they motored from Guerrero to Reynosa, part of a three-truck convoy in early February. Miguel in front, Gabriel and Bart in back, both of the Wolf Boys todo pildoro—high on roches.
The Company permitted alcohol and cocaine. Marijuana was okay, but never on the job and never in front of Miguel. Pills, heroin, and meth were forbidden. Not every Wolf Boy required roches to kill; about one of every five assassins used the pills. Bart didn’t need roches to mute his conscience. He didn’t have much of one to begin with. But Gabriel relied on them, now averaging more than ten a day—an astounding intake for a pill said to be ten times as strong as Valium. The drug, combined with a can or two of Red Bull in the morning, rendered him focused and energized, then touchy as he came down. His tolerance stellar, Gabriel could conceal his roche habit around the comandantes. Bart? Not so much.
Sober, Bart was huevado, ballsy; he volunteered for everything. The pills brought out an even more concentrated version of the Midget’s “short-man’s complex.” Bart became twice as eager to be accepted by the big boys, “to jump at the front of the barrel.”
I’m a good soldier!
That should never be doubted!
I’ll lay it down for La Compañía anytime!
Partway to Reynosa, Bart blurted out, “Give me piñas! An AR! I’ll do the mission!”
Miguel laughed and looked at them in the rearview mirror. “Slow down. What mission?”
“Any mission!” Bart said.
Miguel turned around: “Andas pildoro o qué pedo?” Are you pilled up or what the fuck?I
“Nah,” Bart said, as if such a thing were impossible. “Me?”
Gabriel, able to act natural in spite of the roches, said to Bart: “No andas de mentiroso, güey.” Don’t be lying, dude.
Miguel turned to Gabriel and asked: “Tú también?” You, too?
“Yo no chingo con ese mugrero,” Gabriel said. I don’t fuck with that shit.
Bart looked like he was about to shit his pants. Why was Gabriel ratting him out in front of Miguel?
Miguel told the driver of the truck to turn around. He dropped both boys back off in Guerrero, then left.
Standing in a cloud of dust, Bart was on the verge of tears. “I want to talk to you,” he said to Gabriel. “Why are you doing that to me?”
“Doing what?”
“Talking that shit!”
Gabriel pulled out his gun and pointed it at Bart. “You started it by acting stupid. Talking nonsense to MT.” Bart stood at attention—no emotion, no fear—waiting to see what Gabriel would do. “You’re the one to deal with your dumb comments,” Gabriel said. “You’re the one to be self-blamed.”
When the boys were younger, and had been arrested for small-time crimes, they assured themselves that, because they never snitched then, they never would. But now, who knew? Minor arrests formed a bond. As bigger arrests loomed, that bond would be tested. Growing up, the boys always heard about drug lords wh
o “fell on a cuatro”—were set up. In the end, Gabriel knew that everyone was betrayed. Everyone. But he also knew that you couldn’t be paranoid all the time. If you were, you should go flip burgers for a living.
“But you shouldn’t be treating me like that,” Bart said, “because we’re homies.” He gave Gabriel his sad puppy-dog face. “I love you, güey. I’ll lay it on the line for you!”
Bart and Gabriel made up, but the whole episode put both of them in a terrible mood. Later that day, back in Nuevo Laredo, Bart shot at someone randomly because he didn’t like the way the person looked at him. As a consequence for the unsanctioned shooting, the Mexican Military Police raided the Nuevo Laredo house where the boys had been staying, and confiscated Gabriel’s new Mercedes.
Gabriel went straight to the Military Police’s base, identified himself as “Forty’s people,” and demanded to speak to the chief of police. The chief came out and denied knowledge of the car, treating Gabriel like an idiot. Gabriel dialed Miguel and put his phone on speaker.
“This is Miguel Treviño. I gave him that car.”
The chief laughed. He didn’t believe it was Miguel.
“It’s Miguel! That car was picked up by you!”
The chief went white.
“Look, you son of a bitch! Give that car back or you’ll know who I am personally!”
Out came the Mercedes. The two policemen stationed at the base’s entrance opened the gate and nodded to Gabriel as he drove away.
Cruising through Nuevo Laredo, he heard the ring of a bell coming around a corner: the hotdog guy. He remembered when he and Luis, as little kids dressed in their Sunday best, American clothes, would buy a bunch of one-dollar hotdogs for themselves and their Mexican cousins, telling the guy to pile on beans, chopped onions, and tomatoes until their plates overflowed with condiments. Then they’d run to the famous elote stand, Granolandia, and buy ears of boiled corn smothered in mayonnaise, cheese, and chili pepper. Gabriel’s Mexican aunts earned around eighty dollars a week, some of it paid in grocery store coupons, bonos. By American standards, he was poor; but in Mexico, because he was from America, he never felt poor.