Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  “It’s blurry, but it’ll do. Strange, you see that end over there? Looks like someone tried to clean the rubber off the asphalt. We’ve got a lead here. Can you take a photo of it?”

  The Bus took out his cell phone and captured the evidence.

  “Son of a bitch. When I came out here it was dark and I guess I … I just didn’t see it.”

  “Hm. Take another one, make sure you get a clear view of the tread. We can’t leave anything to chance. Look at that stretch, there,” said Treviño, “how clear the tread is. They must’ve been burning rubber when they pulled out. You know any tire experts?”

  “I can find someone,” said the Bus. “I’ll ask around at the repair shop.”

  “Good. Shame there’s no cameras around here,” said the detective, looking up at the club. “The place is oh so exclusive, but nobody gives a shit about the safety of the clientele.”

  “They sell drugs out here,” the Bus replied. “The dealers park and people come out to buy off them. The dark is good for business.”

  After looking uncomfortably at the activity on the block, he added, “Listen. It’s not a good idea to be out here so long.”

  “What’s the hurry, my dear Bus? We don’t want to screw this up, do we?”

  “Come on, man. I wouldn’t be surprised if your colleagues came back to check the scene of the crime, and I don’t want any trouble with Chief Margarito. What are you even still looking for?”

  The ex-cop scanned the block intently.

  “We have to find the invisible witness. The one who isn’t named in the police report. The one no one found because they were trying not to.” The Bus looked puzzled, so he added, “The great tragedy in this country is that the clues are all right there, in plain sight, but no one wants to see them. Ha! There we go. Why don’t you head to the shop and ask about that tire tread? Come back for me in half an hour. I’m going to have a chat with the invisible man.”

  “You’re going to stay here alone?”

  “Just me and my peace,” the detective said, patting the Taurus he wore at his waist.

  “Whatever, it’s not my problem,” answered the Bus.

  The detective waited until the Maverick was out of sight, then he crossed the street and headed toward a taco shop in the middle of the block. An old man, probably in his seventies, was mopping the floor of the establishment.

  “We’re closed,” said the old man.

  “I didn’t come here for tacos,” the detective replied.

  5

  “Carlos Treviño. Well, I’ll be damned,” said the old man. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you, but with that haircut and mustache, you don’t look much like Doña Rosita’s little grandson. How’s your grandmother doing? Wonderful woman, give my regards to her and her husband. I haven’t seen you around here since that time you came to break up that fight between those two boys. I can’t tell you how grateful I was. It’s good to see a real police officer around these parts again. Come in, come in. Hope you don’t mind if I lock the door behind you. Security, you know. If you’re here for a statement, all I ask is that you don’t use my name in the report. Officially, I saw nothing, and I have no intention of filing a complaint. If you give me your word, I’ll tell you what happened. I wasn’t planning to come in today, but someone had to be here to meet our suppliers.”

  The ex-cop nodded and listened to the man’s small talk until he reached a natural pause. Then he asked, “What time did it happen?”

  The old man hesitated, then looked around him as if he was searching for an emergency exit before blurting out, “Nine thirty, God damn it.”

  “Are you sure? How do you know?”

  The old man nodded. “For a while now, I’ve had the habit of checking the clock whenever I feel like something is off. I mark down the time and then try to find out if there’s anything about it in the papers. I got into the habit because ever since this government’s been in power, this governor I mean, it’s been impossible to find any trace of violent crime in the newspaper or on the radio. The crimes happen. I’ll be damned if I haven’t seen more than one dead body out there on the street. But none of it gets reported. And the local news program you used to be able to listen to on the radio every night, well, they canceled it a while ago. Now the station airs zarzuelas, courtesy of the government. Imagine.”

  “Zarzuelas.” The comment got half a smile out of Treviño. “The governor’s old lady must have been a dancer.”

  The old man pointed to the cash register. “I was here, working. I had to cover the register myself because my manager was sick and the taquero can’t make the food and work the register at the same time. It wouldn’t be sanitary. I was standing at the counter, thinking about how the heat was unbearable and how a storm must be coming, a hurricane or El Norte, and that for the love of God, could we get some wind moving and do something about this weather. This whole week we haven’t had so much as a breeze. Nine in the evening and you could still feel the afternoon heat: the headache, the taste of dust and gasoline in your mouth. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, those bastards show up and God damn them …” The old man paused to take a drag from his cigarette. “The city emptied out over the last five years. The wealthiest residents went first, business owners and their families, then most of my customers followed. Fewer and fewer people come by. Sometimes, like the night before last, I wonder why I stay open, whether I really think it’s going to get better. But I can’t open any earlier. Other restaurants can do delivery, but I’m stuck doing what I’ve been doing because my customers are night owls: most used to come when they got off work or when they left the club or a bar nearby. They’re tired or drunk and think a few tacos are going to get them back on their feet. My shop is famous for its hot sauce: fastest way to an ulcer, my wife says. It’s a good thing people think heartburn is some kind of magic cure-all: if you’re hungover, tired, or hungry, you come get a taco at El Venado. If it wasn’t for the red sauce I make every week—tomato, cilantro, green chiles, and a juicy, crisp onion finely diced—I’d be out of business. Success is in the sauce. Why do you think the burgers over at Perkins’s El Vaquero are so famous?”

  “They’re not bad, actually. But they close around six.”

  “More like five,” the old man corrected him.

  “Shit,” said the detective, checking his watch. “All right, tell me everything. What did you see?”

  “To be clear, I’m only doing this because I know you, kid. If it was anyone else asking, I’d have nothing to say.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Well, I was over there behind the counter, serving up sauce and doing the books, when I heard screams. A girl yells, ‘Liar,’ and a young man shouts back, ‘Ask your father.’ Then a loud screech. The first thing I see in the parking lot across the street is a red truck and a black one blocking in a convertible with a girl and a young man inside. The young man is having words with the guys driving the pickups … I remember when that kind of thing wouldn’t amount to more than a shouting match between drunk drivers. A few insults tossed back and forth and that was it. Now, every idiot’s got a gun on him. From where I am behind the counter, I see two guys get out of the red truck and another two from the black one. In no time, they’ve surrounded the convertible with the couple inside. One of the guys who got out of the red truck went over and started a fight with the girl: a young punk, but built. Not like one of them bodybuilders: the kind of muscle you get when you do a lot of heavy lifting, working at a ranch or a construction site. He was standing by the driver’s side with his arms crossed, facing her. He said something to her, but I couldn’t make it out. Then she opens the car door in a rage and goes right for him. She hits him two or three times but the kid just laughs. Beautiful blond girl, hair down to her waist. I have no idea what a rich girl like her could have to do with the guys in those trucks. They were dressed like gangbangers: caps on backward, baggy pants rolled up at the knee, flashy sneakers.”

  “Any tatto
os?”

  “I couldn’t see. I did see their pants and sneakers, though. They were neon.”

  “And shirts? What kind of shirts did they have on?”

  “The one who argued with the girl was the only one that got close enough to see. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, exactly. It was one of those sports jerseys, red, the kind a basketball player would wear.”

  “Were they wearing chains, jewelry?”

  “Listen, I don’t come with a zoom lens.”

  A smile flashed across half of the detective’s face. “Then what happened?”

  “The boy in the passenger seat sees his girlfriend get out and goes after her, but the other two grab his arms from behind. He yells, ‘Cristina! Get back in the car! Cristina!’ I remember it clear as day. Then one of my customers says, ‘Now they’re fucked,’ and I see the two guys wrestling with the kid take handguns out from under their shirts. Everybody freezes. Most of us, that is. My nephews were eating outside on the bench, so I took off my apron and told the folks out there, ‘Get inside.’ They took forever to react. They were right in the line of fire, but they had no idea what kind of danger they were in. I had to insist and even hit one of them to get them inside. I cleared three tables and then had to deal with a pair of brats who refused to come in. They preferred to stay outside with their beers in hand to see what was going on. When we were all inside, I heard one of them say, ‘Yo! They’re taking her!’ And I turned and saw the tall one grab the girl by the arm and climb into the red truck.”

  The detective stopped him with a movement of his hand. “Hold on, hold on. Did she get in the truck of her own free will, or did they put her in the truck?”

  “They put her in the truck, like in any kidnapping. The guy never let go of her arm.”

  “Did she put up a fight?”

  The old man thought for a second. “Not really. She just said he was hurting her arm.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why would I lie? The tall one opened and closed the door for her. As soon as she was inside, he got in on the driver’s side and they pulled out through the main entrance. Then I heard shouts and turned to see the guys from the black truck pummeling the girl’s boyfriend, but he was holding his own, so one of them gave him a few cracks with the butt of his gun. The kid froze for a second, suspended, and then his legs gave out. He grabbed on to the knees of the guy who was beating him, and the monster gave him two more, right at the base of the skull. It sounded like someone was splitting open a coconut. The kid fell backward, slowly, slowly. Then they climbed into the truck and peeled out. There were people on their way into the club, and several parking attendants saw the whole thing, but no one stepped in or called the cops. They just stood there, terrified, and didn’t do anything until the two trucks had gone through the red light and turned onto the Avenida de las Palmas.

  “My customers left without paying, like they always do when something like this happens: at least two thousand pesos, up in smoke. I didn’t even cover my expenses for the day, because no one else came by after the incident. When the customers had gone and it was just me and my nephews, my taquero walked up, handed me his apron, and said, ‘I quit. The guy in the red jersey, they call him El Tiburón. They say he’s in the trade, and I don’t wanna be here if he comes back.’ I should have done the same, but who would accept our deliveries?”

  Treviño was skeptical.

  “El Tiburón. The Shark?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Does your former taquero know where to find him?”

  “First we’d have to find my former taquero. I called his house this morning and was told he’d left town.”

  The detective looked over his scribbled notes.

  “You’re sure they didn’t hit her?”

  “No, just the boy. But that’s not all. It started to get around that thugs were kidnapping people from the parking lot. I heard more than one person on their way out yell to those who were just getting there, ‘Don’t go in! They’re taking people!’ The club emptied out within a half hour and all my customers were scared away: no one wanted to be kidnapped, obviously. When everyone was out of the club and most of the kids were in their cars waiting to leave the parking area, a man walked up to the shop. He was tall, dressed all in black, and he was wearing a cowboy hat. I didn’t see where he came from and only realized he was there when he was practically on top of me. The man in the black hat asked me, ‘Were you standing here in this doorway a little while ago?’ And I told him I was. ‘And you saw the whole thing?’ I didn’t answer, and he laughed. ‘The quiet type, eh?’ Then he opened his jacket so I could see he was armed. He tapped the handle of his gun a couple of times to get my attention and asked me again: ‘What did you see?’ I thought about the tall, brawny kid in the red jersey they call El Tiburón and the animals who were with him, and I said, ‘Nothing, sir. I’m an old man and didn’t see a thing.’ The man in the cowboy hat smiled and said, ‘Congratulations. That’s the right answer. If anyone else asks, nothing happened here. Agreed?’ ‘Whatever you say,’ I replied. ‘Nothing happened here,’ he repeated, and he stepped back into the darkness. Right after that, I got dizzy and came over here, where we’re talking right now, to sit down. I’m telling you this, Carlitos, in absolute confidence and only out of respect for your grandparents.”

  The old man smiled like a saint or someone who’s had an epiphany, but a moment later his smile vanished and he shook his head, serious.

  “I don’t know why I’m smiling. Forgive me. We haven’t come up with a facial expression to match the horrors we live every day. The kidnappings, the executions, the decapitations, the bullets flying all around, the quickie abductions. This is all new to us, the ones who want to leave but can’t, the ones who’ve seen it up close, who are stubborn, who work here, who live here.”

  “Chief Margarito?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Some guy by the name of Carlos Treviño’s been asking about the girl.”

  “Treviño? Brown hair, around thirty, with a scar on the left side of his forehead?”

  “That’s the one. He’s wearing a white guayabera and a straw hat.”

  “I’ve been wanting to bring that guy in. He has some unfinished business with the law. Where can I find him?”

  “He’s working for Mr. Rafael de León at the moment, but it doesn’t seem like he plans to stay here long.”

  “Did Mr. De León bring him in, or did he just turn up to offer his services?”

  “Mr. De León brought him in. Same difference, though.”

  “I’ll take care of this. Just let me know when an opportunity presents itself.”

  “Yes, sir, Chief.”

  Police chief Margarito González, wearing three rings with gemstones on his right hand, looks at his underlings and says, “Carlos Treviño … Well, well, well. Who would’ve thought?”

  6

  Twenty minutes later, the Bus honked the white Maverick’s horn to announce his presence. The detective crossed the street, then the nightclub’s parking lot, and got in.

  “What’s up?”

  “Turns out you were right: the Perkins kid’s shirt was missing a white button.”

  Treviño didn’t like what he’d heard. He studied the driver’s face.

  “And the other thing?”

  The Bus looked at some notes he’d jotted down on a napkin.

  “The marks on the asphalt are from the most expensive brand of tires on the market. Conquerors. They’re imported and used mostly in the countryside on all-terrain vehicles. They’re good on sand and dirt. They say the design is unmistakable, very rugged. Not just anyone’s going to be using them here in the city. An expensive tire for a heavy-duty luxury truck.”

  “You sure they’re not full of shit?”

  The driver put away his notes. “That’s what the expert told me. He works in one of Mr. De León’s tire shops.”

  “A tire for drug runners, then. This is going from bad to worse.”
The detective looked at the Bus. “We need a contact at the precinct.”

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, Treviño!” the driver exploded. “You’re begging them to come fuck with us.”

  While the Bus drove along the main avenue, Treviño called the consul. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Any news, Treviño?”

  “It was some guy they call El Tiburón. He may be working for one of the criminal organizations, and he’s probably set up somewhere outside the city. We shouldn’t rule out the possibility that he does manual labor, or did, before he started running with a gang. He’s probably not any older than twenty or twenty-five.”

  The Bus stared at him, slack jawed. On the other end of the line, it took the gringo a minute to respond. “And your source can be trusted?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Can they put us in contact with this person?”

  “No, he’s just a witness. I’ll find another way. Still no call about the ransom?”

  “Still nothing. What else do you know about this … Tiburón?”

  “I’m working on it. I’ll tell you everything in person.”

  “All right.”

  “I need you to do something for me while I’m on my way back.”

  “Name it.”

  “We have to tap the precinct’s frequency.”

  “But Treviño … that’s illegal.”

  “Well, it’s what we need to do if you want to find the girl. We also need to get our hands on the receptionist’s report.”

  “The what?”

  “The receptionist’s report. There are three girls who answer the phones at the precinct. Each one has an eight-hour shift, and they always sign a report detailing all the calls they took from officers or citizens before they leave. They take the complaints by phone and then pass them along to a sergeant, who puts the first available officer on the case. It’s a form they fill out in shorthand.”

  “And why do we need that?”

  “We need to know what violent crimes were reported over the past few days.”