Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  “It’s pretty much a desert out there. A few pines near the entrance, right off the dirt road, but after that you won’t find a single tree for cover. Just a bunch of fucking cactus and shrubs. There’s no grass anywhere and no way you’re going to make it all the way to the first building on your belly. It’s fucking far and they’ll get you for sure. They’ve got dogs and patrol units. There’s no way in.”

  Treviño’s neck started to cramp. The ranch was divided up by three concentric fences guarded by men in trucks or on horseback. The first circle was where the vehicles were kept. It was a first line of defense. Most of the troops lived and trained in the second circle, and the third was reserved for the commanders. The hacienda at El Zacatal was now where Los Nuevos’ kingpins would go to relax or hide out.

  “El Tiburón lives in a small house, back in the woods. But they’ll be kicking him out soon.”

  “There’s got to be a way,” said Treviño. His contact looked at him quizzically.

  “Goddammit, Carlitos. People try to find ways out of that place, not into it. You know they’re grabbing people off buses not far from here? Ten miles or so before you get to the border, right there on the highway, they stop the buses passing through and take everyone. I don’t want to say what they do with the girls or how anyone who tries to stop them ends up. You’d have to be crazy to travel by bus at night. It’s worst along the Paso de Liebre route. The only ones who still use the Gulf Line are the coyotes and a few folks desperate to cross the border.”

  The informant stood and leaned on his cane.

  “It’s late. Let’s get going. Your friend back there with the mustache doesn’t seem to want to come out.”

  “He can stay, for all I care. I’ll take a taxi.”

  “Better to walk. Trust me. In case you haven’t noticed, this city is a fucking snake pit. The streets are full of lookouts with walkie-talkies and cell phones ready to snitch to their local boss about any new face they see around.”

  “Why don’t you drive me?”

  “Because I don’t have a car and I live around the corner.”

  Ramiro watched two women prowling around the front door in search of clients and added, “A piece of friendly advice: Go back to your beach. It’s not too late. There’s guys out there looking to tear someone just like you to pieces.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion,” replied the detective.

  Ramiro took one last look at the women and hobbled out of the bar. Treviño checked his phone, flipped up the collar of his jacket, and walked out.

  17

  “Taxi, mister?”

  Treviño looked the driver over and turned him down. The temperature had dropped considerably, as it did in desert towns, but he would rather have shot himself than get into one of those cars. He lit a cigarette and walked around the block.

  According to Ramiro, there was no way to get into the compound unnoticed. Treviño remembered the informant warning him that the main building was on the other side of three heavily guarded enclosures.

  As he watched the smoke drift upward, Treviño saw the scarlet moon floating above his head. He suddenly felt he was in the presence of a ghost.

  He turned and noticed that not only had it gotten colder, but a nocturnal wind was lifting the red-light district’s garbage and thrashing it around in the air. It was hard to think of the wind as a single thing: it looked like an invisible pack of jackals tearing the alley to shreds. Isolated gusts rustled newspapers and plastic bags up and down the streets, whipping them around in a frenzy.

  Maybe it was the moon or the vision of desert ghosts, but Treviño suddenly knew how to get into and out of the ranch. True, he’d be risking his life. But he learned back when he was a cop that if you want to solve a mystery, sometimes you have to take on challenges that are bigger than you are.

  He asked himself several times if it wasn’t the tequila thinking for him. If he set the plan in motion, there’d be no turning back. He had to get in, locate the girl, and get out like a bat out of hell. Just figure out if she’s there or not, and if she is, let Mr. De León know they should start negotiations. And if something goes wrong? He fiddled with his cell phone. If he ever wanted to smooth things over with his wife, this was exactly the kind of trouble he needed to avoid. The moon slipped behind some clouds and he dialed Mr. De León’s cell, waking the businessman up.

  “Treviño? What is it?”

  “I was just calling to see if the kidnappers made contact.”

  “No, no one’s called.” Mr. De León cleared his throat. “Would you like to talk to the consul? He’s manning the phone in the living room.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Any news?”

  Treviño took a deep breath. “We need to figure out if your daughter is with El Tiburón. If she is, we need to get the negotiations started. Otherwise she won’t be alive for long. She’s not the first woman this guy has taken. Trouble is, I’ve confirmed he’s hiding out on the ranch held by Los Nuevos.”

  “Do whatever it takes. Please.”

  Treviño thought for a moment and added, “I figured out a way to sneak into the compound. I don’t know how I’m going to get out just yet, but I’ll deal with that once I’m inside. I need to confirm your daughter is there. If everything goes as planned, you won’t be able to reach me for a few hours, so wait for my call.”

  “Is there anything we can do from here?”

  “When you talk to the Bus, tell him to wait for me at the hotel. He needs to stay put and wait for me. Tell him the car should be ready and he should have guns on hand for whatever we might need to deal with.”

  “Where’s the Bus? What’s going on?”

  “Don’t worry about him, I gave him a special assignment. Another thing: if this thing goes wrong, my wife and daughter will depend on you.”

  “We made a deal, and I’ll honor it. Go in there and find my girl. You have my word.”

  The wind stirred the garbage in the street. Treviño stared at the town’s main drag in the distance and nodded.

  “All right. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  De León breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  The detective hung up and checked his watch. It was three in the morning. He did his best to close his jacket and walked toward the avenue; the bus terminal was just three blocks away. Travel and prostitution always go hand in hand. When he caught sight of the sign for the station, he checked his reflection in a store window to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  The first thing he noticed when he stepped inside was that only the second-rate lines ran at that hour. He walked up to the Autobuses del Golfo counter and greeted the clerk.

  “I’d like a ticket for the first bus to Paso de Liebre.”

  “You crossing the border?” the man behind the counter asked, giving Treviño’s clothes a quick once-over.

  “Yes, sir. Have to be there bright and early.”

  “There’s one about to leave. You’ll be there in forty minutes.”

  “That works.”

  The clerk took Treviño’s money and handed back his change and a ticket. “Hurry up and get to gate five,” he urged. “The bus is about to leave.”

  The detective walked through the back entrance and out to the parking lot. It wasn’t hard to spot the only clunker with its engine running.

  “Come on, get in.” The driver hurried him along.

  The first rows were filled by a group of teenagers dressed like basketball players who were passing around a bottle of alcohol poorly concealed by a brown paper bag. As he walked along the aisle he noticed a few of them looking at him with the professional interest of pickpockets. Several of them had tattooed arms. One pair of eyes, belonging to a sinewy, dark-skinned kid in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, bore into him like daggers. Behind that bunch: a woman nodding off with two little girls and a couple of old-timers. No one wanted to sit near seat thirteen, he realized, which meant he could have the row to
himself. He took it and got comfortable.

  “Paso de Liebre!” shouted the bus driver. The bus shook as he fired up the engine, and after slaloming past a few obstacles they were on the highway.

  The bus swayed like a boat out at sea. Treviño rested his head on the window, crossed his legs, and decided he’d let himself close his eyes for five minutes. Just five minutes, he thought.

  In his dream, a breeze caressed the fronds of a tall palm tree. He was on the beach with his wife, and it was that day they’d spent hours making love right after she’d moved into the hotel. The sun was strong but pleasant and it lit the ocean a blazing blue. The light disappeared as the bus rattled to a stop.

  While the rest of the passengers panicked, Treviño checked his watch. It was five in the morning.

  “What’s going on?” moaned one of the old men. His accent suggested he was from Campeche. A moment later, he exclaimed, “Holy Mary!”

  A group of men dressed in what looked like black military gear approached the bus. The leader of the pack had a gun tucked into the front of his pants.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” the bus driver smiled. “They’re just keeping the highway safe.”

  “Oh, God. Oh, dear God,” the mother of the two girls intoned.

  The driver opened the door to the bus and two of the soldiers stepped inside.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said a slim man with a broad smile. Treviño was immediately suspicious of him. “This is a checkpoint, for your own safety.”

  What he didn’t say, though, was whether he was from the army or the marines, and the gun in his right hand was pointed straight up, contrary to military search protocols. Behind him, a man with a shaved head pointed an assault rifle at them. The man with the crocodile smile walked up the aisle and the detective noticed he was carrying a revolver—not exactly standard army issue.

  Before reaching the rear of the bus, the man with the revolver turned, satisfied, and walked back to stand next to the driver.

  “Close your curtains, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll be passing a military base.”

  The driver started the bus and did his best to avoid a series of enormous potholes. The detective’s traveling companions were concerned.

  “What’s he doing?” one of the old men said. “This isn’t the way.”

  While his buzz wore off, Treviño tried to see through a slit in the curtains. The only thing he could make out in the five minutes or so they were on the road was a row of pine trees shrouded in the morning mist.

  The next time the bus stopped he saw they were at an intersection: a dense forest and what looked to be an unwalled cemetery barely peeked through the fog. It was a terrible idea to travel without Bustamante, he thought.

  “All the men get off here. The women stay on the bus,” ordered the man with the revolver.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” yelled the woman.

  “Just do as you’re told, ma’am,” he said, silencing her. “It’s for your safety.”

  The detective got off the bus behind the group of boys, who, young and foolish as they were, kept cracking jokes. Six armed men immediately surrounded the group. One ordered them to line up with their identification in hand.

  “Forward, march!” came an order from somewhere in the fog.

  “Forward, march!” the smiling man repeated, and the line started moving.

  After twenty paces, Treviño was able to make out a group of men sitting around a table under an improvised tent made of tree trunks and palm fronds. The travelers approached, handed over their papers, and lined up with their backs to the inspectors. More armed men (impossible to say how many) oversaw the operation.

  When it was their turn, a soldier escorted them over to the table, where the smiling man who had boarded the bus, the one the others called Captain, was waiting. The man standing beside him was huge. Treviño was used to people in the north of the country being tall, but this guy broke every record. His black hair had been shorn into a buzz cut and one of his ears was grotesquely swollen.

  When they got to the table, the captain asked for their papers. He didn’t even bother examining the boys’ passports.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A passe-port, sir,” said one boy in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt.

  The officer shook his head.

  “You’re Mexican?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy, with a marked Central American accent.

  “Where are you from?”

  “From Chiapas.”

  “Then you can tell me where in the state Lake Pátzcuaro is.”

  The boy hesitated a moment before answering, “In the north.”

  While the soldiers behind him laughed, the officer replied, “North is right, boy. It’s all the way up in Michoacán. Inside, all of you. Fucking cholo punks. Chiapas …” Turning to the other soldiers he said, “Time they came up with a better line.”

  As the officer compared Treviño’s face with the picture on his fake identification, the detective discreetly scanned his surroundings. They were on some kind of ranch made up of what looked like a main house, a barn, and a small stable with a horse inside.

  “Name?”

  “Juan Rentería.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Salesman.”

  “What are you doing so far from Veracruz?”

  The address on Treviño’s papers indicated he was from there.

  “I’m headed to the border for a business meeting.”

  “That’s where you’re going?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let’s see your wallet.”

  Treviño handed it over, along with the two hundred dollars in small bills and the fake visa that were inside. Like his identification, it had all been provided by the consul. The soldier hesitated. “What did you say you do, again?

  What’s your line of work?”

  “Construction materials,” replied Treviño.

  “All right,” said the man with the smile, tossing his wallet into the same sack that held the other travelers’ belongings. The colossus made sure he wasn’t carrying any weapons and gestured to him to get back in line.

  When they’d finished interviewing all the men, they sent for the women and children and lined them up. The moment of truth had arrived.

  The man with the crocodile smile called for their attention.

  “Good morning, fellow citizens.”

  “Good morning,” echoed the fake Chiapans, expectantly.

  “You’re all headed north, and most of you don’t have papers. Which means you’re looking for work.”

  In a speech he seemed to have delivered many times before, the man explained that the coyotes working the border would charge them somewhere between two and three grand to get them across. That they’d leave them in the desert to die of hunger and exposure. That they’d probably get shot by either the rangers or one of those vigilante lunatics, and for what? To make a sorry fifty bucks a week working like dogs and being humiliated by gringos?

  “We’re offering you two thousand dollars per month, and you don’t even have to cross the border. We’re looking for a few brave men. A few real men.”

  “Listen,” said one of the old men from Campeche. “We’re just passing through. We’re on our way to McAllen and were going to stop by Champotón on our way back.

  The officer in the wide-brimmed hat ignored his comment.

  “Last call. Anyone who wants in should get in the bus. Whoever doesn’t, stay here.”

  The cholo and the fake Chiapans were the first to climb on board. Treviño slid in among them. The only ones to stay behind were the old men from Campeche and a couple of Canadians.

  “All right, you’ll stay with the women and children. Another bus will come pick you up.”

  “You promise?” asked the woman.

  The man smiled. “Of course.”

  Treviño looked at the woma
n and her daughters with concern.

  “Come on, keep your sorry ass moving,” said one of the soldiers, pushing him forward.

  Before he had time to regret his choice, he was sitting in the back of the bus as it drove along a narrow road into the compound. He was riding the wave now. Would he be able to get out?

  When the bus couldn’t go any farther, they were ordered off. The detective’s feet sank into the sticky yellow dirt. Almost immediately, they heard a burst of machine-gun fire. He looked at the soldiers escorting them, but they didn’t flinch. Terror was par for the course.

  “Don’t be a little bitch. Keep it moving.”

  They were ordered to climb a little hill. Slipping and stumbling, they reached a barbed-wire fence guarded by four armed men. Contrary to the gringo’s intel, there were no cameras or alarm systems to be seen. There were even a few gaps in the perimeter.

  He couldn’t believe what he saw next. After that first fence, the plateau dipped into a depression the size of a football stadium. The space was divided into four camps of about fifty people each. He’d been hearing about this kind of thing for months, but had always thought the accounts were exaggerated. As the smell of gunpowder and burning rubber reached him, he realized how wrong he’d been. This wasn’t just some little ranch. It was the size of a military base.

  His heart leaped for a moment at the sight of what he thought was a row of electrical poles in the distance, which would have meant that the highway—and salvation—was within reach. But it was just a few cables strung between the trees for mountaineering practice. A voice inside him told him to give up hope. A man on horseback rode up to the other side of the fence, an assault rifle strapped to his back.

  “Today, assholes!”

  There was another fence when they got to the bottom of the slope; on the other side, fifty or so men dressed in tattered clothes, most of them shirtless, took turns shooting weapons of different calibers, first into a brick wall, then into a dummy or the dirt slope. Two pillars of dark smoke rose off to one side. One came from a tree; the other, from what seemed to be a pile of burning clothes. It took Treviño a minute to make out the charred human remains underneath.