Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  “He owes me some money,” said the detective. And Cornelio says he couldn’t help smiling.

  “Ha! No way. Forget about calling that debt in.”

  “Why? What do you know about him?”

  And he told him the kid was already in the trade, that he was young but dangerous.

  “He’s not from around here. He’s from a ranch in the middle of the state. Like any other dumbass his age, he’s good in a fight but useless at holding a job, a legit one, I mean.”

  And since Treviño didn’t say anything, he added, “Story goes, he was playing with a gun one day and it went off. Killed his father. But then, some people think he wasn’t playing, that they only said it was an accident because he was a minor and the family paid to get the charges dropped. You know, same old story. They say his own mother and sister went to live in the United States because they didn’t trust him and wanted to steer clear. Then the ranch went under, or he lost it in a bet, and he came to live here by the port. They tied him to two other bodies, but haven’t been able to prove anything.”

  “What bodies?”

  “A few months ago, a girl he was seeing disappeared right after she left his ranch. She was found beaten to death. They let him go. He could prove he was with friends when it happened, and he had ties to a major player in the trade.”

  “Where did you say this was, again?”

  “At his family’s ranch, in the northern part of the state. El Zacate … no, El Zacatal, it’s called.”

  Cornelio recalls (or claims to recall) that Treviño repeated the name of the ranch, El Zacatal, and asked, “Why would you remember that?”

  “I had to book him a while back,” said Cornelio. “He was raising hell in a bar and hit two people. The kid goes out every weekend and gets shit faced, then beats the crap out of someone. And with that build, no one can really take him on. Once, he started raising hell in a Brazilian restaurant and the owners called it in, so I went and brought him down to the precinct. But he passed some money to the chief, who chewed me out in front of him and let him walk that same night.”

  He says Treviño gave a little grunt before going on with his questions.

  “They say he’s been seen with a gang. Maybe La Cuarenta?”

  “No …” Cornelio remembers shaking his head more forcefully than necessary, to the point that a few retirees turned to look at him, but then he managed to restrain himself. “I don’t picture him with the Four-Zero. And I know every asshole in that organization. If he’s in the trade, he’s working with someone else.”

  “Could he be with Los Nuevos or Las Tres Letras, the CDP?” Treviño asked, referring to the two other criminal organizations that had put down roots in the port city.

  Cornelio says he answered, proud of himself for taking the reins not just of the conversation, but of reality itself.

  “It could be either of them.” And then the truth blazed in his mind, despite the pills, and he asked, “Tell me something, asshole: why does he owe you money, and how much are we talking about? Because if I help you find him, I expect a commission.” A big smile spread across his face and he was about to burst out laughing but managed to hold it in. He didn’t want to make another scene. Well, maybe he did let out a little snicker, but nothing too loud or demented, though it did catch the attention of all present, and also of the distraught waitress, who watched him with concern. And he noticed that Treviño was looking at him too, sadly, and that he was having a hard time regaining his composure, coming back to earth, fighting the effect of the pills, but that he was finally able to stop laughing and pick the conversation up where he left off.

  “What’s your angle, asshole? What are you up to? Whatever you plan on doing, count me out. Look at me. I can’t take any more risks. If I help you, I’ll be even more fucked down at the precinct than I already am.”

  “You serious?”

  “Yeah, man. When you skipped town, they took it out on me. Yeah. That’s how things are.”

  After a pause long enough for half the restaurant’s customers to discreetly ask for the check, and for several of the old folks to leave cash on the table and slip out without looking back, Cornelio said, never taking his eyes off the overly primped old ladies who trembled as they paid for their food up at the register, “You have no idea, no idea, my dear Treviño, how bad the port has gotten. This isn’t a city anymore. It’s a fucking Western.”

  He saw that he needed to explain.

  “All the top brass work for one of the major players, the heavyweights in the trade. They all carry two, three phones. One for the job, another to stay in touch with their sponsoring organization, and one more for talking to the competition, because you don’t want them seeing you as the enemy. It’s outrageous: all those phones on the table during meetings or hanging from the officers’ belts.”

  Cornelio says he went on.

  “You remember Roque? He’s one of them now: driver, messenger, lookout, bodyguard. He even moves product for them in his spare time. A bit of everything. He’s doing pretty well for himself, but it’s just a matter of time before they lock him up or fire him: you can’t get too close to those people or meet with them in broad daylight.”

  “And our team?” Treviño asked.

  “What team? They’ve all been run out.”

  Cornelio says his memory gets blurry here, because right then a kind of black cloud settled over the table, but he thinks the conversation went something like this:

  “Who’s still there that I know? And turn around, stop scaring the waitress.”

  “There’s a bunch, a bunch of the top brass, but none of them’s trustworthy. There’s Oscar Fayad. They took away his patrol vehicle and his badge, now he’s El Quelite’s stoolie. He got hooked, spends everything he makes on blow.”

  “And Ramiro?”

  “The one who taught karate? He quit. About a week after they beat the crap out of you. One day he just didn’t come in to work, and word got around that he was working as a bouncer at a brothel in Ciudad Miel, a place called Babydollz. I don’t buy it, though. I heard he’s with Los Nuevos.”

  “And my girlfriend?”

  Cornelio smiled. “She’s still there, doing her thing. Why does that broad love dead guys so much? Dead guys and washouts. The news is that she opened a store that sells plants, not far from the precinct. Gotta do something to make ends meet. Still miss her, huh? It’s hard to get some women out of your head, am I right?”

  “My interest in her is purely professional.”

  “Oh, sure. You and your professional interest.”

  “Lay off the lewd gestures, Cornelio. This is a family joint. What about the Three Stooges?”

  The nickname referred to three officers—basically thugs themselves—who had killed numerous criminals in firefights over the past few months. Suspects had a strange habit of dying while in their custody. Cornelio’s eyes lit up for the first time in their whole conversation.

  “Ahaaa. So that’s where all this was going. Pinche Carlos. You want to get even, is that it?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Well, they haven’t forgotten about you. They say Bracamontes still scours the beaches around here looking for you. He didn’t appreciate the way you knocked out his front teeth.”

  “I knocked his teeth out?”

  “You don’t remember the head butt you gave him the day you skipped town?”

  The song playing in the background had become intolerable. Cornelio leaned forward and said angrily, as if it were all Treviño’s fault: “Get with it, Carlitos. Since you left things have gotten out of hand. The chief sort of used to try to hide his dealings with the trade before, but a little while ago he went ahead and invited a few heavyweights to meet in the precinct. As you can imagine, it’s like a holiday when those bastards drop in. They show up with suitcases full of gifts for the guys on their payroll. The precinct fills up with whiskey, snow, porn, and chits for table dances at one of their joints.
If the federales or marines are making the rounds, they distribute their goods in the parking lot of a mall or in a park, but they always pay their people.”

  “And the ones who don’t sign up?”

  “They ask you if you’re in. And if you change the subject or fake dementia, they just shrug and walk away. Then headquarters suddenly starts giving you more dangerous assignments or just lamer ones, where you don’t get the chance to make an extra dime on the side. Their bet is you’ll quit: they want you with them body and soul, or they want you to walk of your own free will.”

  “What about you, Cornelio? Who are you with?”

  “Nobody wants me. But I guess you could say I’m with the founders.”

  He was talking about the old guard, an organization known as Los Viejos or the Cartel del Puerto, the criminals who got the business up and running way back when. Cornelio and Treviño both knew that for thirty years the same organization had controlled the black market in alcohol, weapons, electronics, pharmaceuticals, and drugs. They also knew that, as the CDP found itself under threat in the late nineties from a growing number of rivals coming in from other states, the businessmen who ran it were forced to hire more bodyguards. First, they were armed agents who worked for the federales or the local police. But as the fighting over territory got more intense and began to demand twenty-four-seven security, they had to bribe elite soldiers from the army. Their agreement lasted maybe ten years, until the soldiers decided it was time to take over and founded Los Nuevos. Cornelio says that’s what he’d been talking about and that he’d added, “Everyone wants to control this territory. They’re throwing everything they have at it. And they’ve got eyes everywhere.”

  “When I left,” Treviño interrupted him, “the heavyweights were using taxi drivers as spies. They’d report back on any suspicious activity by the coast guard or military in exchange for cash. Is that still going on?”

  “No, no. That’s over now. Used to be the taxi drivers took money from Los Viejos in exchange for watching their backs. Now they work for Los Nuevos for free, because they get killed if they don’t.”

  They fell silent when they realized they didn’t see the waitress or the restaurant manager anywhere anymore. No one else gets a policeman’s sense of humor. Treviño looked at his watch and asked how to get to El Zacatal.

  “Are you really going out there to call in a debt?” Cornelio asked with a crooked smile. “Or are you in the transportation business, too?” When Treviño didn’t answer right away, he added, “Man, I never imagined you’d get mixed up in all this, with all this moving merchandise from one place to another. Fuck, Treviño. Everyone’s fucked these days, but I never thought you’d get into the trade.”

  “I didn’t, Cornelio,” said Treviño, turning serious. “It’s not my thing and never has been, whatever Margarito says, but you’re free to think what you want. They owe me money, and I want to be sure I’m going to get it.”

  Treviño looked his former colleague over. Finally, he asked, “And you? How much do you owe the chief?”

  “Why do you want to know?” retorted Cornelio.

  Treviño passed him a small manila envelope.

  “Right before I left, you were one of the guys who bought a gram off the boss’s associates every month. I’m guessing you still do, or there’s no way you could manage to stay at headquarters. Anyway, and I say this with all due respect, I just wanted to thank you. I hope this helps you get out from under that debt.”

  Cornelio opened a corner of the envelope with his fingertips and peeked at the bills. There were a lot of them, all new and orderly. He swallowed hard and looked at his former colleague.

  “Thanks, Treviño.”

  “Thank you. You saved my life.”

  Cornelio ran his fingernail along the corner of the stack.

  “Yeah, but your life isn’t worth this much. Now I’m the one who owes you.”

  Treviño smiled.

  “How can I find this ranch?”

  The policeman looked at Treviño.

  “Take my advice, Carlitos: Don’t even think about it. Forget about getting that money from El Tiburón. It’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for starters you’ve got the checkpoints, asshole. There are guards posted every couple of hundred feet, some by Los Viejos, others by Los Nuevos. No one drives alone at night or in the evening for that matter, because they just stop you and take your car if they feel like it. People prefer to travel by bus, and only before three in the afternoon. But they say that at some point not even the buses get through. They say Los Nuevos pull people out, rob them, and scream at the little old ladies. They say that every now and then Los Nuevos grab a bunch of dudes and no one ever hears from them again. That they use them for manual labor or as human shields, but that first they’re taken for training on a huge plot of land, out there in the sierra. Don’t even think about trying it.”

  And he says that Treviño checked his watch again and said, “I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “I need you to go back to headquarters and check if any of these people has a criminal history, but be discreet.” Then he gave him three names, keeping his voice low: Valentín Bustamante, a.k.a. the Bus; Rodolfo Moreno Valle; and Rafael Garza Elizondo, a.k.a. Rafita.

  Cornelio says that since none of the names sounded familiar, he wrote them down on a napkin. This shitty little scrap’s good for something, after all.

  That’s what he was doing when flashing lights out on the street caught his attention. Cornelio raised his eyes and peered into the patrol vehicle pulling up.

  “You’re fucked now, Carlitos. Get out of here. Now I have to report that I saw you. I’ll say you were holding me at gunpoint. I’m sorry, buddy, but it’s my ass or yours.”

  Treviño stood. “First, pay the check and leave a good tip, so the waitress gets over the shock of all this. Don’t go cheap on me now, Cornelio.”

  Cornelio says it took him longer to find the woman in the pink apron and ask her for the check than it took Treviño to get out of there. That when he turned back around, his former colleague was already gone.

  The man approaching the restaurant was one of the Three Stooges: Bracamontes, the one they called El Braca, or the Snout. The one with the gold teeth. And Cornelio López, a.k.a. The Rolling Stone Headed Off a Cliff, a.k.a. The Car Driven by Pills, says he suddenly understood how he was going to rejoin his body and be himself again. There was only one path, and that path was pain.

  Bracamontes walked in seconds later, in his crisp uniform and knee-high boots, with one hand resting on the holster that held his sidearm. While the few remaining customers asked for the check—it wasn’t a good time to go out for dinner, not with so many bad people around, spreading bad energy—Bracamontes examined every corner of the place. He didn’t find what he was looking for. He walked over and stood next to Cornelio.

  “That was Treviño here just now?”

  “Oh, hi,” said Cornelio, thanking the gods for suggesting he hide the envelope with the money in his pants.

  “Why’d you let him go?”

  “He caught me by surprise. He’s armed. He threatened me.”

  “Does the boss know?”

  “I’m working on it,” Cornelio said. “I’m working on it, but I keep getting a busy signal on his cell.”

  “Why don’t you call him from the squad car?”

  “I was just on my way to do that.”

  Bracamontes took out his own cell phone and passed it to Cornelio, who called their boss. Chief Margarito picked up right away, as if he’d been waiting for the call. In a sense, he’d been waiting for the call for years.

  “Margarito here.”

  “There’s news, Chief. Treviño is back in the port. I saw him in the Grand Vizier before he hightailed it.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  “Yes, sir. He even sat at my table.”

  Cornelio had to wait a long time before the chief
spoke again. When enough darkness had gathered, Margarito said, “This is the second time you’ve let him go, Cornelio. I’m starting to get angry. Very angry. First, we get the call that one of our officers is high as a kite and screaming nonsense in a restaurant. Then I find out that you let this guy go. I’m going to have to send all available units out after him. One more thing, Cornelio.”

  “What is it, boss?” The officer’s voice cracked.

  “Come see me in my office, friend. I want you to tell me everything Carlitos asked you about, word for word. I’m sure that when you’re here you’ll be able to remember it all in detail. Bracamontes will give you a lift. I’d hate for you to get lost on the way.”

  “What do you think?” Margarito asked the Three Stooges an hour later. He’d just poured four glasses of whiskey. “What message was Treviño sending us?”

  “Whatever it was, he won’t get to enjoy it long,” said the Block.

  “I’ll find him,” said El Gori.

  “I’m going with you,” Bracamontes insisted. “Obviously.”

  8

  “A lot of activity on the street,” the Bus observed and looked at Treviño. “Listen to those squad cars flying down the avenue.”

  “Must be the Three Stooges,” the detective replied.

  “The Three … Those guys that tore a suspect’s arm off?”

  “That’s them. One walked into the restaurant just as I was leaving. Seeing as how they’re all distracted, let’s get something to eat. It’s time for dinner.”

  “You’re reckless, Treviño. No, what we’re going to do is head straight home.”

  The first thing Treviño and the Bus saw when they stepped into Mr. De León’s living room was the consul and a technician leaning over a pair of screens. When the consul saw Treviño, he blurted, “We have news!”

  “Did they call?”

  “Not yet. But we found the two pickup trucks.”

  After speaking with Treviño, the consul and his driver had started poring over tapes. Taking advantage of the gringo’s contact at police headquarters and, above all, of Mr. De León’s professional connections, they were able to get about a half dozen video recordings, mostly captured by private cameras mounted in front of the businesses near Club Giza. One of the videos showed two vehicles careening down the main avenue, not far from the nightclub, but it was impossible to make out their license plates. Not a single frame had captured them.