“Don’t take it personally. We’re doing this to send a message to everyone carrying a debt with our organization: if we start with the chief of police, the others will know they’ve got nowhere to hide. You should be grateful you’re not already in one of these coolers.
“Oh, and another thing,” added the Colonel. “Starting today, you’re going to be seeing a lot of these,” he said, kicking the cooler. “Open whatever investigations you need to, but don’t waste your time trying to solve any cases. You know who did it. In six months, it’ll be your godson and everyone close to him, if they don’t kneel to us. If you want to stay alive, you’ll report to me from now on.” He tossed him a cell phone. “I know you, Margarito. I know you’ll accept our proposal.”
The only thing the Colonel had been wrong about was that much more than six months had gone by, but his godson was still alive and there was no end in sight to the turf battle announced that day. Los Nuevos ruined everything when they showed up. Not only did they take his house and all his savings, but the day after that meeting he’d been forced to give up fencing stolen cars. Taking all the necessary precautions, he went to talk with Obregón about the encounter and was told to accept the Colonel’s terms.
“Those bastards used to watch the border for us. Now they want to break off and start their own organization. The most important thing is to stall them while we get our counterattack together. Give them the money and I’ll pay you back.”
Later that week, though, his friend had a stroke. He didn’t bounce back from it, and his organization never did, either.
That’s why we’re in this mess, concluded Margarito.
As he always did when he stayed out at the beach, he avoided the potholes that were more like ditches, skirted the tall screen of pines that divided the shore from the rest of the world, and merged onto the interstate. The fog lifted in patches, offering him exquisite views, as if everything were stepping out from behind a vast curtain.
It took him longer to cross the row of pines than it did to spot Flaco Ibarra, who was tailing him at a discreet distance in his run-down pickup. The night before, he’d asked Ibarra to keep an eye on the barely passable road, but the guy was hardly a marine. As a bodyguard, he’s not worth shit. He couldn’t hide from a blind man in a dust storm. Chief Margarito hit the hazard lights and pulled over. El Flaco, who’d been going about three miles per hour, pulled over near a billboard and stared at it like he’d never seen anything so amazing in his life. Why is he stopping? What’s he thinking? The chief honked the horn and El Flaco slowly pulled forward. When he was right alongside him, Margarito stuck his head out the window.
“You get worse by the day.”
“We’ve got you, boss. There won’t be any surprises. Hey, did you turn off your radio?”
He was talking about the shortwave they used on the force. The chief nodded. He preferred to communicate by cell phone, since a new technician had just started in the mayor’s office, and he was certain the radio was the first thing they’d tap.
“I did.”
Rather than complain about this, Ibarra simply asked, “Are we still going to the airport?”
Margarito furrowed his brow.
“Hell yes, we are. And the rest of my boxes?”
His escort nodded.
“We already cleared them out of your office. We also fixed that button on the air conditioner and tidied the whole place up, so the new boss finds everything perfectly in order.”
Just the mention of the chief’s successor hit a nerve. It’s never pleasant to walk away from a place you’ve worked at for thirty years, and much less so when the guy filling your shoes wants to throw you into jail.
“See you at the airport.” He had to hand it to El Flaco: he was definitely the most loyal of his security detail. In recognition, he gave him a little nod.
“Make sure everyone’s in position.”
“Right away, sir. Should I get a head start?”
“Of course not.”
If they’re going to shoot me they can take this asshole out, too, for not knowing how to do his damn job.
He closed the window and blasted the air-conditioning. If the people threatening his life wanted to catch him off guard, they’d have to wait until he was in the city. That’s why he’d gone to the beach house: so he could head straight to the airport along the highways and main roads, avoiding La Eternidad’s traffic. He wasn’t about to make any rookie mistakes. It would be too cruel a twist of fate if the man who’d weaseled his way into Margarito’s job had to figure out, right out of the gate, who’d killed his predecessor. It wouldn’t surprise me if he just left the case open.
The fog was lighter as he passed the refinery, allowing him a clear view of its three flare stacks and the twenty-story spherical holding tanks around which the lives of the oil workers in La Eternidad revolved. As far as he knew, they hadn’t found any pre-Columbian pyramids around there because the people who lived near the Gulf five hundred years earlier used shells, rinds, plants, and other perishable items to build their dwellings. To Margarito’s mind, however, the refinery’s immense black spheres were modern-day pyramids that had shaped the people’s destiny over the last century. Now a new industry had taken over La Eternidad. He never would’ve thought it would be bringing him a little extra cash on the side.
The fog lifted again, providing a moment of spectacular visibility. There were no other cars around, no one waiting to shoot him: just him and the open road and the dunes. Still, there was no reason to tempt fate. He stepped on the gas, trying to escape the fog and his fear. He spent the next few minutes well above the speed limit imposed by a rusty sign. When he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw the little yellow fleck of El Flaco, following at a prudent distance in his compact pickup.
He left the wasteland of potholes and scattered palm trees behind and looked back at the flames from the flare stacks, still partially hidden by the last ribbons of fog that finally let up as he reached the municipal dump. He turned off the air conditioner to keep the smell out of the car and hit the gas. Why not, it’s a special occasion. In less than a minute, he’d hit seventy-five miles per hour and was enjoying the relatively good condition of the highway. The chief had always had a thing for speed. Seeing that red light loom in the distance at the city limits was his first reality check: he realized that he’d need to start going a bit lighter on the accelerator when he turned in his plates. Come to think of it, this was really his last chance, since they wanted the transfer of power to take place that morning. Which is why, even though he saw the orange Caribe and the stake-body truck slowly approaching the intersection, meekly respecting the rules of the road, Margarito ran the red light, forcing the other drivers to slam on the brakes. They hadn’t yet recovered from the shock when Flaco Ibarra sped past in his trunk, tapping his horn twice as he crossed in front of them. The man driving the Caribe, one Dr. Solares, saw them and said, “A strange chase: two old-timers trying to outrun death.” His son, who was in the car, made note of the comment.
Margarito took the beltway to avoid the military checkpoint on the way into the city. Not only were he and the general in charge of the area not on the best of terms, he also wanted to be able to see any possible threat coming from a mile away. Before long, he was where the avenue leading to the airport began, at the end of the malecón. Ever since the violence started, there were three kinds of roadblocks you might run into: First, there were the ones the military set up at the entry points to the city in order to confiscate weapons twenty-four hours a day. Only an idiot would go that way: the soldiers were famous for seizing everything down to your nail clippers. Second, there were the barricades his department had to raise around the perimeter of a crime scene, at least until they found a good enough reason to drop the case. And third, there were guard stations you’d see here and there, which had been set up by the criminals themselves in neighborhoods recently acquired by their organizations and anywhere a local capo lived. He’d often see guards
on his godson’s payroll posted at strategic intersections in fake military uniforms. The most confident—or the most cynical—ones didn’t bother wearing a disguise at all.
As he turned off the beltway, the sky was a dark mountain falling across the earth.
Right before he reached the airport, Margarito saw two trucks pulled up across the road. They were patrol vehicles—at least they looked like the new patrol vehicles—but he didn’t want to take any chances. He slowed down and set his gun on the seat between his legs after releasing the safety in a fluid movement he’d learned over the years. He looked in the rearview mirror and was surprised not to see El Flaco behind him. Goddammit, he thought. Some bodyguard I’ve got. He’d had a bad dream the night before: None of his men had gone to the airport like he’d asked them to, and he was forced to get out of his car in the middle of a downpour. In the dream, he’d noticed as soon as he stepped out of his vehicle that the water was up to his knees. He took a few steps, and it had risen to his waist—heavy like silt, like sand, like cement in a mixer. He woke just as he realized the water was an impossibly deep red. Maybe it was age or his experience, but at this point he didn’t need anyone to interpret his visions for him, not even La Santa. “There’s your warning right there,” he said to himself. “Plain as day.”
He honked the horn once without coming to a complete stop. If the guys waiting up ahead were hit men, it would be the perfect place to shoot him: they’d left just a small path down the avenue, between the trucks. All one of them needs to do is move a little and I’m boxed in. But then La Tonina, recognizing Margarito’s truck, jumped out from one of the vehicles and waved. Margarito pulled up alongside him.
“Where’s the Suburban?”
“It’s in the lot already, boss. I came out here to coordinate. Everything’s in order. There are just two security detail vehicles: one of them with the guards sent to pick up the notary, Carrizo, and there’s some dude from the mayor’s office in the other, his personal escort. The mayor’s in a van, and he’s got a girl with him.”
A bad start for the mayor, Margarito thought, if he only sent two civilians to pick up his guest of honor.
“Find El Flaco for me.” After their many years of working together, he didn’t need to specify that he wanted an escort from the airport to headquarters, one vehicle in front and one behind. “Yes, sir. One more thing: Dr. Antonelli just went inside.”
Goddammit, of all the days for her to turn up. There was only one person in La Eternidad who could insult him, scream at him, and make a scene without his being able to do anything about it. That person was Dr. Antonelli. She was one of the most respected professors at the university and, as far as the chief knew, the only historian who studied La Eternidad. He was certain one day he’d wake up to the news that she’d published a lengthy tell-all about him. All she’d need to do was write down what she heard while they were together. Which reminded him: “How are we for reporters?”
“A TV station showed up, and a photographer. Their credentials checked out so I let them in.”
“Move the barricade closer and give me some backup. I don’t want the press in there, no disturbances.”
“Yes, sir.”
He needed to talk with his successor about how it was all going to go down, and the twenty-minute drive from the airport to headquarters was his last chance before the guy took office and started making trouble for him. Everything had to run smoothly.
He drove past his men, who followed him in their trucks, and immediately recognized Dr. Antonelli’s old Ramcharger in the parking lot. Goddammit. Dealing with her wasn’t going to be easy. And he was going to have to deal with her, of course: there was only one waiting area.
From his car, he watched the plane land. El Flaco was nowhere to be found, but he did have to acknowledge that the whole thing was going like clockwork. A government van dispersed the drivers who insisted on idling near the entrance and the chief parked behind the mayor. The typical short, potbellied driver, who was about to become an official budget line, opened the side door of the vehicle and a pair of long legs emerged, followed by a designer miniskirt, a girlish waistline, and a pair of small but exquisite breasts—a tall woman with curly red hair, carrying a thick folder. The chief watched her with more disdain than desire. And what are you planning to stop the bullets with, sweetie? He got out of his truck as soon as he saw La Tonina jump out of his vehicle, rifle in hand. He was a good officer, La Tonina. Out of the corner of his eye he confirmed that El Dorado, the golden boy, was behind him, and finally, there was El Flaco, trying to catch his breath as he approached.
“Where have you been, asshole?”
The answer sent a shock through him.
“I thought I saw suspicious activity.”
“What was it?”
“A blue vehicle with two cholos inside, headed this way. They turned around two blocks back, though. I’m telling you, we’ve got this place secured. Oh and, hey, your wife’s in there.”
The chief glanced at the airline service counter, where Dr. Antonelli was checking that the flight from Mexico City was on time. She wore a dress and heels, with a shawl draped over her shoulders. Her makeup suited the occasion. Without saying a word to his subordinate, the chief made his way across the parking lot.
They stood across from the domestic arrivals waiting area, making the civilians around them nervous—and with good reason. When you see someone with the Chief Margarito’s build coming at you, with that look on his face, you know you have nowhere to turn. Not even to the law. On his way through the door, he’d determined there was nothing suspicious about the group beyond the general commotion of those waiting for friends and relatives. The young woman in the miniskirt, who’d probably been out of college for only about fifteen minutes, was chatting with two photographers and a television crew. Like everyone who worked for the new mayor, she brimmed with excitement and good intentions. As she distributed copies of his replacement’s résumé, the girl extolled the man’s virtues: two years on the local police force; a grant to study modern investigative and combat techniques abroad; a four-year residency in Quebec, where he’d worked in the private sector; absolute respect for the law and for human rights.
The girl gave her speech at a volume that was hard to ignore.
“The officer arriving today is a man of integrity ready to transform the city. The mayor himself went to meet with him in Canada, where he was living in exile, and convinced him to come back and join his team. Will you be at the induction ceremony? It will be at city hall at ten o’clock sharp.”
One of the journalists cleared his throat and gestured, with a discreet movement of his mustache, in Margarito’s direction. When it became clear the girl wasn’t getting the message, he ended up greeting the officer.
“Morning, Chief.”
“Juan de Dios, good to see you. Let me borrow the young lady a second.”
The girl blanched but allowed herself to be pulled aside.
“There’s been a change of plans. I’m going to be escorting our guest of honor.”
The girl opened her round, strawberry-colored mouth.
“But they sent me to get him! I have to explain his itinerary.”
“You’ll explain it later, sweetheart. Juan de Dios,” he called to the reporter. “Come over here.”
The journalist walked over, white as a sheet and looking like he might faint, despite the fact he used the byline Fearless Juan. Over the past fifteen years he’d written hundreds of incendiary articles about Margarito in newspapers of increasing irrelevance, criticizing the chief’s every move. Recently, instead of celebrating the opposition party’s victory in the mayoral race, he’d been applauding the shake-up at police headquarters. He’d been the chief’s staunchest critic throughout his career, and there was no way he was going to miss the arrival of his replacement.
“I enjoy those little jokes you write,” Margarito hissed.
Over the past few days, Fearless Juan had, in his capacity
as an informal adviser to the new mayor, suggested to the politician that it might not be a bad idea, after the transition at headquarters, to look into the current chief’s ties to the organizations wreaking havoc on the region. With this on his mind, the reporter looked like he was about to burst into tears. Fucking Margarito, he thought. Always with an angle. The devil really is on his side. The chief, however, just patted him on the shoulder and said, “Will you take a picture of me with the man of the hour? A good one, cabrón—good enough for your column.” And he pushed him toward the crowd.
“Sir …” the girl insisted.
Just then he saw the first passengers to get off the plane filing in to collect their luggage. With a “We’ll talk later,” he left her standing there, stunned, in the middle of the crowd.
“Chief,” someone behind him called.
He turned to see a morbidly obese man in shorts and a T-shirt big enough to serve as a camping tent. The man was wearing a cap with the logo of a private security company on it, and the smile he was aiming at Margarito looked sincere. But the chief didn’t recognize him until the other added, “It’s me, González. Panda González, remember?”
His eyes and hair were exactly as the chief remembered them, but the man’s face and what used to be his body looked as if they were wrapped in a layer, almost a tire, of fat. Margarito struggled to hide his surprise.
At that point, his bodyguards relaxed and the man was able to give the chief a hug, or the closest thing to a hug his girth would allow. You could tell from a mile away he had a very high opinion of his former boss.
“I saw you from back there and wanted to come over to congratulate you. They tell me you’re retiring.”
Of course he had to bring that up.
“I’m being fired,” the chief corrected him. “And they took away my pension.”
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