Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  She tried to pull him back toward the ambulance, but Margarito kept his gun aimed at his colleague, who eventually got to his feet.

  “Get out of here and don’t even think about coming back.”

  “You’re fucking nuts, old man,” Bracamontes growled.

  The chief head-butted the policeman, who fell back down to his knees. Seeing the Block reach for his back again, he aimed his gun at him.

  The Block froze. Bracamontes, meanwhile, was writhing on the ground with his face in his hands.

  La Gordis wrapped her arms around her boss to keep him from doing anything worse and called the paramedics over, who ran to help Bracamontes.

  Miraculously, if one can talk about miracles at the end of a firefight, the military convoy arrived. The soldiers fanned out, securing both ends of the street. For a second, the police officers thought, They’ve come back to finish us off. But no: General Rovirosa stepped from their midst with an escort of half a dozen soldiers and headed straight for the chief.

  “We’re here to secure the crime scene. What’s the situation?”

  But the chief was in no condition to explain the situation. His eyes were glued to Bracamontes, who was still holding the piece of gauze to his right cheek while he cursed or spat at the ground behind his squad car, all without taking his eyes off Margarito. Then the chief saw him bring his cell phone to his ear.

  At some point, the medics convinced him to let them take a look at him too. He got into the second ambulance so they could clean the wound in his shoulder.

  “You’re lucky, Chief. It’s just a flesh wound.”

  “I can’t move my arm,” he said. “It feels dead.”

  Hearing this, Dr. Rodríguez left El Flaco in the hands of his colleagues for a moment and came back over to examine him.

  Margarito flinched when the doctor lifted his arm.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Dr. Rodríguez.

  The chief, whose pain was getting worse by the minute, noticed one of the paramedics staring at him.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Forgive him,” the doctor said, apologetically. “He’s never seen someone survive a firefight like this one. Good luck is so rare in this line of work.”

  Dr. Rodríguez lifted the arm again, and the chief writhed in pain.

  The young doctor helped him into the ambulance and asked him to lie down on the gurney. He could tell by the look on the chief’s face how much he was suffering.

  “I’ll give you something for the pain,” he said. “And in a minute we’ll take you to the hospital. I have to cut your shirt in order to examine you.”

  Before he even finished his sentence, he had already removed the shirt’s left sleeve and a good part of the front.

  “Hard to believe, coming out of all this with just a flesh wound.”

  “Should we give him an NSAID?” the paramedic asked.

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” the doctor replied. “Look at him.”

  The paramedic nodded.

  “He’s going to need an opioid. The pain will be too much, otherwise.”

  “Keta?”

  “Probably, but first, the diagnosis. Write this down. Lateral and frontal contusions. Superficial lacerations on the elbows and forearms, plus the flesh wound on this shoulder, but that’s all. Incredible. Clean that up there. Yes, perfect.”

  Margarito had groaned when the doctor touched his shoulder, but he almost shot through the roof of the ambulance when he lifted his arm again.

  “Ufff! What is that?”

  “Your shoulder’s been dislocated. I need to … Yes, I know it’s unpleasant, but I’ll get it set in no time.”

  And, without giving him a moment to object, the doctor put the chief’s shoulder back in its socket.

  “Mmmphf,” groaned Margarito.

  “We’ve treated the luxation, but there’s a lot of swelling. If the arm stays that way, you’ll need to have it looked at by the hospital staff. We don’t want you losing it.”

  “Why would I lose it?”

  “If the swelling keeps up, it could necrotize. They’ll need to make a few incisions to relieve the pressure.”

  “Is it absolutely necessary?”

  “You need to keep an eye on this.”

  “I don’t have time to go to the hospital. Give me something to help with the pain. I have to get back to the investigation.”

  The medics looked at one another.

  “We aren’t authorized. It would be illegal.”

  “I’m the chief of police.”

  “They’d take away our licenses. And anyway, I’m telling you that arm should be kept under observation.”

  “If you don’t give me something,” the chief insisted, “the men responsible for this are going to get away. I can’t go to the hospital until I catch them.”

  The physicians exchanged a look.

  “I’m sorry, Chief, but I’m not doing anything illegal,” said the doctor. “Here’s an anti-inflammatory and an analgesic. If you’d like me to take you to the hospital, let me know. That’s all I can do for you,” he concluded, stepping out of the ambulance.

  Once he was out of earshot, the paramedic approached Margarito.

  “I’ve got this friend. I mean, I know this guy who might be able to give you something, if you can’t get to the hospital. He’s studying to be an anesthesiologist, and he does this. I mean, he’d do this, as like an exception to help you out. But it, you know, would be nice if you’d pass him a little something, a tip. Ask him for buprenorphine. That’s what you need.”

  “Bu … pre … ? You call him.”

  “All right. Hold on.” The young man walked to the corner with his cell phone in hand and returned almost immediately.

  “Okay. He’s on his way to buy the stuff now. Where—”

  “Tell him to wait for me in the Parque de la Petrolera. By the theater. I’ll call him when I get there. What’s his number?”

  “Whatever you say, Chief.” The paramedic leaned forward, wrote the number on a crumpled sheet of paper, and handed it to Margarito.

  The general was nearly done surveying the scene when he discovered none other than Flaco Ibarra on a gurney in an ambulance, lying in a pool of his own blood. Rovirosa popped his head in to take a look.

  He’d run into El Flaco several times over the years the man had spent as secretary, assistant, partner, and accomplice to Margarito. When their contacts in the trade were feeling appreciative, they would sometimes send a bag of money from the chief’s offices to the military base. Sometimes the direction was reversed, but Flaco Ibarra was always the bag man. A loyal, efficient, and discreet individual. Too bad he never enlisted.

  “How’s he doing?” he asked the doctor, noticing that either death or medication had closed El Flaco’s eyes.

  “Multiple gunshots, not all with exit wounds. We’ve tried to stop the hemorrhaging, but we’ve got to get him to a hospital right away,” replied Dr. Rodríguez. With the stocky, headstrong EMT who’d earned himself the nickname Speedy González behind the wheel, his was the only ambulance that still made it to every call on time. They threatened his life on a daily basis and blocked his way into certain neighborhoods, but Dr. Rodríguez had become a specialist in firefights over the course of a harrowing three years. Which is why he looked at the general and said, “The chief should go with you. There could be complications if he doesn’t get his arm looked at.”

  When he realized the general wasn’t going to do anything to convince the police officer either, the doctor snapped, “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, this man requires immediate attention.”

  Just as the general was about to step out of the ambulance, El Flaco reached out and grabbed his arm. Terror welled in his eyes. It was fairly common, after a shoot-out, for the gunmen to go after their target in the hospital and finish him off.

  “Don’t worry,” said the general, understanding his fear. “I’ll make sure you have a bodyguard. You”—he pointed to one of the men
with him—“don’t let him out of your sight. Not even in the operating room. And you”—he pointed to the other—“go tell Sergeant Domínguez to set up a security detail at the hospital and to give the ambulance an escort.”

  To the paramedic’s surprise, the first soldier climbed into the ambulance and stood in one corner of the vehicle. The general noticed that El Flaco seemed to have no idea what was going on, so he nodded his good-bye. Dr. Rodríguez banged twice on the vehicle’s roof to let the driver know it was time to head out and closed the ambulance door from inside.

  Once he was certain the Jeep was clearing a path for the ambulance, General Rovirosa went back to the chief, who was standing next to the Suburban. As he got closer, he noticed that Margarito’s cell phone was ringing, but the policeman seemed to have no intention of picking up.

  “That one over there,” he said quietly, pointing at a soldier who was staring at them intently, “has a package of the usual on him.” Meaning coke. “Say the word and we’ll slip it in with the gunmen and leave the rest to the attorney general.”

  In other words, their usual technique for washing their hands of a crime. They’d been doing things that way for years. But the policeman shook his head.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The chief nodded.

  His ears were still ringing, and the pain in his arm had gotten worse.

  The general’s phone rang. Rovirosa answered, grunted his agreement two or three times, and turned to the chief.

  “It’s the mayor, for you.”

  Before he could do anything, the phone was in Margarito’s hand.

  “Chief, how are you?”

  “Alive,” he answered, his voice sharp with pain.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened. It’s a tragedy. They tell me you’re badly injured. You have the full support of city hall: If you need to go to a private clinic, we’ll cover the expense. I told Bracamontes he should see personally to your safety. Go get some rest.”

  The chief felt a bitter taste rise in his throat.

  “I just gave Bracamontes a different assignment,” he retorted. “Thank you for your concern, but until you say otherwise, I’m still the chief of police around here.”

  “What? No, no, none of that. Get to a hospital. Get yourself checked out. We’ll find a replacement for you.”

  “No, sir. I’m going to handle this myself.”

  The mayor didn’t answer right away. He needed to weigh his options, determine the most politically advantageous move. Would he win more support if he forced Margarito’s resignation?

  “Let me think,” he said. “I’ll call you back in five minutes.” And he hung up.

  That’s when Margarito’s arm really started to hurt. He called over La Gordis, who knew his family, and handed her his cell phone.

  “Call Dr. Antonelli and tell her what happened. Tell her we’re going to get him out of here as soon as we can. Then have El Carcamán ask Robusta for some money from petty cash and start making arrangements at the funeral home.”

  And then he went off to yell at the crime scene investigator who was still busy sketching the victims.

  “How much longer, cabrón?”

  “I’m almost done.”

  The general joined them.

  “How many do you think there were? How many got away?”

  He thought about the guy in black athletic gear and all the footsteps he heard to his left, toward the stores.

  “Three, at least, plus the dead ones. Maybe four.”

  Rovirosa did the math.

  “That makes nine or ten gunmen. You were eight. Ten against eight? That’s no strategy: no one would plan an ambush with such a narrow advantage unless they were desperate. You might have better weapons and the element of surprise, but you need more people for a classic three-on-one.”

  A little light went on in the policeman’s mind.

  “They shot at the vehicle up front first, then came for us at the back of the convoy. They went after the Suburban last.”

  The general dried his forehead and went on.

  “They didn’t expect you. If you hadn’t been here, it would have been ten on five: two shooters per target. Now, that would have been a workable ambush.”

  The chief looked toward the end of the street where the fog was still rolling in and said nothing.

  “In that case, we can draw one conclusion,” the general continued. “The crew might have been improvised. No army would ever enlist these fucking runts. But whoever planned the attack had military training.”

  To Margarito, this explained the efficiency of the ambush and the stance of the man in black as he approached. He saw it all in front of him, as if the attack were happening again: the man took two steps, paused, and fired; then took another two steps as he readied his weapon, aimed it, and fired; it at the Suburban.

  “Anyway,” said the general, shaking his head, “what are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t turned in my resignation yet. I’m still the chief of police.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m going to lay down the law.”

  The general thought to himself that he was talking to a corpse, but he nodded solemnly and said, “We’ll be in touch, then. One squadron will stay here to secure the crime scene.” With that, he gave a military salute and left.

  Margarito looked out over the scene and thought, What a fucking farce.

  As soon as the general was gone, the chief opened his left hand and noticed that he’d been holding the nine-millimeter casing the whole time.

  Conversation in the dark

  “Did you hear?”

  “Yeah, I heard. That’s why I came. But I didn’t have nothing do with it.”

  “This is the first time something like this happened here in the port.”

  “It’s unbelievable: how could they screw up like that at such close range?”

  “His plan was shit. Or his hand shook.”

  “He choked. Or he’s getting old.”

  “The bastard’s going to pay, though. Imagine, screwing up a close-range job like that? This thing just got personal.”

  “They say there’s a reward for anyone who can finish the job.”

  “Sure, they say that. They also said they were going to retire Margarito, but he’s still kicking around.”

  “The problem was the crew. Why use outside guys? You can’t trust them. Our guys, though, you know where their family is, who their parents are, what school their kids go to. You can hold them accountable.”

  “It doesn’t work like that anymore. All of a sudden, we had to start hiring from other states, sometimes even from other countries, to keep the locals in check. It’s all because of the competition. That’s why he hired guys from outside, and they’re all dead now.”

  “And Margarito’s still out there.”

  “Not for long. They’re warming up the pits of hell for him.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see. One thing’s for sure, though: someone’s going to pay for his sins.”

  6

  As they were loading his son’s body into the second ambulance, one of his cell phones rang—the one only a select few had the number for. He had to take the call. He stepped away to answer and a familiar raspy voice cut right to the chase.

  “You alive, Margarito?”

  “Still here.”

  “Your son is dead.”

  “Seems so. Do you have something to say to me?”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Tonight at eight, at the usual spot. Come alone, no tails.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He hung up. As he did, he noticed that his neck hurt. This is nothing, he thought. The real stress was just beginning.

  Seeing that the street and the rooftops of the nearby buildings had started to fill with on
lookers, La Gordis suggested he clear out.

  “Give me a minute.”

  The chief sat on the fender of a patrol vehicle and watched a flock of pelicans flying toward the pier.

  “Get El Carcamán and Forensics,” he ordered.

  La Gordis nodded and noticed that her cell phone was vibrating. It was the mayor again, so she passed him to her boss.

  “In light of what happened, you have forty-eight hours to clear this up. But hear this: I need you to go back to headquarters immediately. People are starting to talk about ungovernability. I need them to see you working. My government is not going to run and hide.”

  The chief said he got it and hung up. Only an idiot would go back to the office at a time like this. He called Roberta, El Carcamán, Villalobos, and Pangtay aside. He hadn’t paid most of them their monthly bonuses yet, so they had good reason to want to keep him alive. And a couple of them, like Pangtay and El Carcamán, really owed him. Literally. When they were gathered around, he asked for their attention.

  “The mayor wants my resignation, but I haven’t signed the letter. He says he’ll give me two more days on the job, but my guess is it’ll only be twelve hours, until he can name some other son of a bitch to the post. Probably Bracamontes. Whatever happens, this is my case, and you’ll report only to me. If you don’t like it, that’s your prerogative, but get the fuck out.”

  He looked at each of them in turn. No one moved, so he went on, telling them they weren’t going to stop until they caught those bastards, and there was no time to waste. He asked Villalobos to trace the weapons they’d used.

  “Check if they forgot to scratch out the serial number. Find out where they got them. Get everything you can.”

  La Gordis was assigned to locating more witnesses.

  “The ones that really matter are the ones who saw them arrive or escape. Ask them what car they got into, who was waiting for them. There was a shitload of tourists around. Go ask at the hotels nearby if anyone suspicious checked in. Don’t ask about the shoot-out. Ask what they saw before and after, anywhere around this block. We need to know everything.”

  He asked Pangtay to seize the security camera footage from all the stores nearby and to talk with private security companies.