Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  “This was a different place four years ago,” said the detective. “Look, we can park over there.”

  “Aren’t you going to meet with an informant?”

  “What, are you scared?”

  They parked in front of Babydollz. The neon sign above the place showed the outline of a curvaceous woman who swung her hips as she stroked her glimmering hair. A bouncer and an armed guard stood at the door. Luckily, they’d left their weapons at the hotel: they knew going around unarmed was dangerous in that town, but it was still better than the alternative. If they ran into either criminal organization, they’d have to prove they weren’t working for the other side.

  After they were searched, the guard knocked three times. A host wearing a cheap smoking jacket opened the door with a smile.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Are you joining us for dinner, or are you here to enjoy the show?”

  “We’re here for the show,” said Treviño.

  The host nodded and led them down a hallway paneled in blue velour. When he opened the door at the far end, they were dazzled by the vision of a dozen women dancing close together, in nothing but thongs.

  “This way, gentlemen.”

  He brought them to a booth in the first row. A brunette with long legs and breast implants was strutting across the stage. It did not escape their attention that she was wearing a yellow spandex one-piece with black stripes up the sides and was carrying a samurai sword. The host had to clear his throat to get the Bus to take his eyes off the girl for a second and sit down in the booth. They hadn’t even settled in when a waitress deposited two cold beers on their table. A moment later, two of the topless dancers turned up to wrap their arms around them and rub their oiled breasts in the men’s faces.

  “Hey, handsome. Like watcha see? I can show you a good time. Just say the word.”

  The women kissed the two men on the lips and disappeared again. Before the Bus could get up to call one of them back, the club’s manager leaned over them to take their order.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. What can I offer you? Would you like me to send some company over? Any particular size, type, or color?”

  The Bus’s eyes remained glued on the dancers.

  “We came to see La Cat,” said the detective. The manager seemed not to believe what he was hearing, so Treviño added, “La Caterpillar.”

  “Ah. Real men, I see.” The manager turned to the waitress. “Sweetheart, bring over a bottle of the Tres Cruces serrano tequila. These gentlemen are hunting big game.”

  “Should I clear the complimentary beers?”

  “Please. I wouldn’t want to offend these gentlemen with such meager trifles. Bring these real men a real drink. I’ll be back with you in a moment.” And he left.

  Almost as soon as he was gone, a one-legged man left his spot at the bar and walked over to stand in front of them, leaning on a wooden cane. Treviño almost didn’t recognize him.

  “Ramiro? What happened to you?”

  The man looked at him disdainfully.

  “Life happened. Who’s this?”

  “He’s with me.”

  “That wasn’t the fucking deal, Carlos. These conversations happen one-on-one. Let’s just forget it.”

  “No, no. Wait.” Treviño turned to the driver. “Bus: you have a mission to complete. You see that woman over there who looks like a tractor?” he said, nodding toward the back of the room.

  Behind the topless dancers, the Bus saw the manager lean over and whisper something to a hulking mass that vaguely resembled a woman. She looked up at them.

  Holy shit, thought the bodyguard. Where did that come from? La Cat, as she was known in artistic circles, was an enormous woman with the arms of a bodybuilder and a sour expression permanently stamped on her face. Aside from a pair of custom-made Greek sandals, she wore only a white silk robe and a rhinestone-studded hair comb in her black, shoulder-length locks.

  “Her name is Constanza, but they call her Miss Ceiba or La Caterpillar. Her specialty is Greco-Roman wrestling. She’s all yours,” said the detective, patting the Bus on the back.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the …”

  “It’s an order.”

  “But I have a girlfriend.”

  “We can’t waste time on your scruples. Mr. De León told you to follow my orders, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “If you don’t go with her, we’re going to draw attention. Go on, get to work. I’ll see you at the hotel.”

  “Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” La Caterpillar was already towering above them.

  “We were just going,” said the Bus. “We have an early morning tomorrow.”

  “Coupla queers, eh? How cute. All right, stop your crying and give each other a kiss.”

  “Madam,” said Treviño. “We kneel before you.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Nobody calls me out of my corner for nothing. You’re here either because you want to have a good time or because you want to suffer. In the first case, you pay me. In the second case, I charge you. So. Whadda you tightwads want? What brings you here?”

  “This young man would like to test his strength against you.”

  “I’ve squeezed diamonds out of worse trash. But I’ve got a short fuse today. Let’s hope he knows how to treat a lady.”

  Under his breath, the detective said, “All right, Bustamante. Time to earn your keep. I’ll see you when you’re done.”

  Valentín Bustamante, a.k.a. the Bus, realized he had no choice. He stood up, ready to follow La Cat. Treviño grabbed him by the arm and said in a low voice, “If we get split up, wait for me at the hotel. Don’t go anywhere. You hear me?”

  “Right this way, sir,” the manager urged. “We mustn’t keep the lady waiting.”

  When he saw the Bus finally leave, the visitor leaned his cane against a column and sat down across from the detective. They waited until the Bus was completely out of sight, and then the detective asked, “What happened to your leg?”

  The visitor flashed his incisors, reminding the detective of a cornered dog. Not trying to disguise his bitterness, the man explained that after successfully defending the area five times, he’d needed to push Los Viejos, the Three Letters, back to the highway and he hadn’t been so lucky. The worst part was that a one-legged man wasn’t out of place in the least around there. Ciudad Miel was turning into a city of cripples. Looking at the sloppy patch job on the man’s clothing and the cigarette burn on the front of his jacket, Treviño gathered that his bosses had tossed him aside. The informant followed Treviño’s eyes and, embarrassed, covered the hole with his hand.

  “Before we get started, tell me one thing: you’re not with the DA or snitching to the marines or any of that, right?”

  “Of course not, Ramiro. I’m here because of something else. They’re paying me to find a missing person. You have my word.”

  The informant seemed to be rummaging through his oldest memories of Carlos Treviño. Luckily, the detective had never broken his word, at least not around him.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  The detective pulled an envelope from his jacket and passed it to him discreetly. The man counted the sum on his lap and slid the money into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “The ranch you’re looking for was owned by the García Osorios. A good family, wealthy—one of the oldest in the city. The father died from a gunshot wound, and it was his own eldest son, a kid they call El Tiburón, who shot him. The family paid to get him out of the joint, but he kept making trouble, so they eventually distanced themselves from him. The widow and his other relatives sold everything except the ranch, which went to the kid, and moved to the United States. He’s the only one of them left, that fucking parricide. He was always partying, so he ended up deep in debt to the dealers. One day he made the mistake of proposing an arrangement: he’d give them the ranch if they’d forgive his debt and pass him a little white once a month. He probably thought he was going to get ric
h selling the drugs they gave him, until they said no, that was for personal use only, and if they caught him trying to sell any, they’d waste him. What could the kid do? He does most of it, sells some to acquaintances at bars, just enough to get by. He never has a cent to his name and it seems like they stopped passing him cash. Or they pass him less than they used to, and whatever they do give him is gone in a hot minute. They say he’s desperate. Los Nuevos have taken over his ranch and you can’t even imagine what goes on there. The place is run by the boss of this whole area, El Coronel de los Muertos. El Tiburón is probably still living in one of the little shacks on the property, but he won’t be there long. They’re tired of him. Now, tell me, why are you so interested in the place?”

  “I need to speak with the Colonel.”

  The informant recoiled and stared at the detective. Treviño knew something had gone wrong, because in a matter of seconds Ramiro had begun to look at him with absolute hatred. His upper lip peeled back, revealing his incisors again.

  “He’ll fuck you up if he finds out you’re looking for him.”

  “He has no reason to. I’m just here to make him an offer.”

  That was when Treviño noticed that his childhood friend was pointing a gun at him under the table.

  “Put it away, Ramiro. You don’t need that. Put it away.”

  “Are you a rat?” the man asked.

  “What?”

  “Are you a rat for the marines?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what, man?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Fucking seriously. I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “We know the marines have got something really big set up to take out the boss. We know they plan to use live bait to hook him. They’re going to send him a messenger with an offer that’s too good to refuse, and as soon as he shows his face they’ll be there with a convoy of helicopters. So don’t bullshit me: are you that messenger?”

  “Man,” said Treviño, holding up his hands. “Don’t you know me at all? I don’t have anything to do with the army or the police, much less the marines. Anyway, you and I both know that whoever takes that gig is a dead man.”

  Ramiro looked at him for a few seconds, then slid the gun back into his jacket.

  “That’s a nice piece. You don’t have the Remington anymore?” Treviño asked, calmly.

  “They took it,” replied Ramiro, sizing Treviño up. “It just seems like quite a coincidence, doesn’t it,” he blurted out, “that we’re waiting for a Trojan horse and you turn up, offering money. How much, exactly, are we talking about?”

  “I’m not a fucking rat, Ramiro. Don’t ask me again. And we’re talking about three million dollars.”

  The informant considered the figure in silence.

  “All right. What’s the story?”

  “Around ten o’clock Saturday night, El Tiburón and three guys from La Cuarenta grabbed a girl from a nightclub. They got her right as she was leaving, put her in a red pickup, and took the highway in this direction.”

  “Could be. Nothing surprises me when it comes to that maniac. Did you say he was running with guys from La Cuarenta?”

  “Yeah. They were seen taking the girl.”

  “Not possible. The Colonel can’t stand even the thought of La Cuarenta, and El Tiburón’s not stupid. No one in the crew mixes with them.”

  “But you said he’s on the skids and no one around here pays any attention to him. Maybe he did get involved with them.”

  “He’d be taking a big risk. Who’s the chick?”

  “Sixteen years old, blond hair, green eyes, five foot six, speaks a few languages. She’s the daughter of Rafael de León. The three million is to get her back safe and sound.”

  “And what’s in it for you?”

  “They hired me to deliver the message.”

  “Interesting,” said Ramiro. “But if I didn’t know you, I’d already have turned you over to the boss. Like I said: his whole intelligence operation is waiting for some asshole to show up waving a bunch of money around, and they’re ready to skin whoever it is alive. It’s not a good time for this deal of yours.”

  “Goddamn it, Ramiro. I can’t go back without trying. They don’t pay me to sit around on my ass.”

  “Don’t look at me, Carlitos. If I put you in front of the boss, it’ll be bad for both of us.”

  Just then a band took the stage and salsa music began to pour from the speakers. That was the signal. Every waitress and cigarette girl in the place showered the patrons with confetti, while twenty or so topless dancers invited the regulars out for a spin around the floor. Two of the girls stopped in front of their table and held out a hand to Treviño with a smile and to Ramiro a bit more hesitantly.

  “Can I have this dance, handsome?” said the one standing in front of Treviño.

  Treviño said he’d love to, some other time, and the girls moved on. The dancers looked at Ramiro with obvious fear in their eyes, the way people look at a rabid dog. The informant finished his drink and the detective poured him another tequila.

  After a while, he asked, “Is there any way you could tell me if the girl’s inside?”

  “Not sure. But, knowing El Tiburón, her body might already have been dumped out there somewhere. He likes to hit women. They don’t let him in this place anymore. One time he took one of the dancers back to the ranch and spent the whole night beating on her. Later we found out she wasn’t the first.”

  “Where does he live?”

  The informant smiled. “He’s always hanging around here, in the district, but he lives out at the ranch. I haven’t seen him in a few days. You’d have to go out to El Zacatal, but, like I said, you won’t get to see him.”

  “Are there security cameras at the entrance?”

  The informant looked at him, annoyed.

  “They’re gonna kill your stubborn ass, cabrón.”

  The detective poured another round of tequila and didn’t say a word. Their attention turned to the performance: a pale blonde walked up and down the stage, resting a foot on the shoulder of one of the men applauding her and inviting him to slip a bill into her thong. Then she’d give him a graceful little shove with her high heel and move on. The applause continued until the song ended.

  Ramiro leaned on the table and said, “Do you remember what we talked about the last time I saw you?” Treviño did the math. They hadn’t seen each other since 2006. “I told you things were going to get real bad for the country in 2010 and you didn’t believe me. Was I right, or what?”

  Treviño knew, because his informant had told him, that a while back Los Nuevos, bold from the success they were having against Los Viejos, started calling themselves the Rebels, like heroes of the Mexican War of Independence. They went around saying there was a war every hundred years—first in 1810, then in 1910—and that they were going to win the war of 2010. But the fact is that in Mexico the peace had already been broken for years. In 2005, during the presidency of Vicente Palafox, firefights were already a common occurrence in northern cities like Ciudad Juárez. Treviño had always thought that if Mexico was going to crumble, the first cracks would form in the south, with the Zapatistas in Chiapas or the EPR in Guerrero, and spread upward. But the two movements lost steam, and, who would have thought it, the chaos came from the north, right here on the border with the United States. This is where the wave of blood began to surge, and now we’re floating in it and no one cares.

  The violence got worse with the country’s next president: the right-wing and much-maligned Felipe Calderilla, who forgot about the people who voted for him and dedicated his energy to creating a fantasy world where he could live surrounded by privilege with those closest to him. The worst part for those who voted for the right wing was that the other members of the party reacted like small-time speculators: they just sat back and let the instability escalate. Taking advantage of the fact that most of
the conflict was taking place in states governed by their rivals in the opposing political party, they chose not to get involved and just let the people drown in blood. Deep down, they were hoping their political rivals wouldn’t be able to resolve the situation and would lose votes as a result. As if they couldn’t see they were all treading the same troubled waters.

  “We’re about to throw everything we’ve got at Los Viejos,” said Ramiro. “We’ll take whatever turf they still have. They have money and the guns they bought off the gringos, but they won’t last forever. We’re training hard for it. The government respects us and looks kindly on us. They’ll let us do the dirty work and when we take care of Los Viejos, they’ll do business with us. After all, the government made us what we are.”

  Treviño also knew, because Ramiro had told him over countless nights of hard drinking while they were on the force together, that Los Nuevos were formed with the support and complicity of the governor of Tamaulipas, who later installed his own successors and retained control of the state.

  “They haven’t arrested him. He’s still right there. Everyone knows who he really is. Anyway. I’ve already said too much.”

  The last four governors of Tamaulipas were evading warrants from the DEA, and a few of them were wanted by Interpol. But they’d chipped in some of their state’s funds during the last round of presidential campaigning and their party had come out on top, so they still enjoyed total impunity. To this day, no governor of Tamaulipas, Coahuila, or Veracruz has ever been arrested.

  “I have to find the girl,” Treviño insisted.

  “Taking you to that ranch would be a death sentence. I suggest you drop it.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just tell me where it is.”

  “You’re nuts, Carlitos. You know I can’t do that. The only way into that place is to be brought in.”

  Treviño pulled a second envelope from his jacket and passed it under the table to his informant, who looked inside, counted the money, and didn’t say a word. After a brief internal struggle, Ramiro dipped his finger in tequila and drew a fleeting map on the table.