“Check out all the movement on this street since yesterday. These assholes must have come through to check out the lay of the land. You don’t improvise an ambush. And another thing: El Flaco told me he’d seen a couple of cholos hanging around the airport early this morning. Find all the cameras around there, at the gas station and any ATMs. If anyone refuses to hand over the tapes, get a warrant from Judge Trujillo. And you, Carcamán, tell the morgue to drop everything and examine the bastards we dropped. Every detail matters. While the medical examiner’s working, help Robusta collect fingerprints and report back to La Gordis.”
He looked at them.
“Got that? Report all leads to Roberta. No sleeping on the job, and I pity the bastard who breathes a word of any of this to Bracamontes or his people. Steer clear of them. Now let’s nail those sons of bitches.”
He noticed a strange mood among his team. Something like pity. They knew they weren’t likely to see him alive again. Pangtay was the first to speak.
“Sir, it’s been an honor to work with you.”
If anyone had a kind word for him, it was that kiss ass. Pangtay fed a family of seven, not on his salary, but rather on perks the chief had set up for him. So he just gave the man a little nod and didn’t take the remark too seriously.
After dismissing the other investigators, he whispered an order to Pangtay. “Go to the parking garage around the corner, on Matamoros and Allende, and subdue the attendant. Pick a nondescript car with tinted windows and a full tank, close the gate, and wait for me there. When I knock like always—three hard, two soft—let me in.”
Pangtay nodded and rushed off. He had experience stealing cars; it was his line of work before he joined the force on Margarito’s invitation. Thanks to the chief, for the past twenty years he’d been doing it in a legal, orderly way, and Margarito got to keep part of the take. Since he started working with the chief, one luxury car each quarter was enough to feed the family; he made better money and took fewer risks, thanks to the chief’s contacts. It’s true he was supposed to have given up the gig when Los Nuevos took over, but this was for a good cause: the boss needed something more discreet than a patrol vehicle.
“Carcamán, Roberta, get over here,” called the chief. “I’m riding with you.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” And they headed toward the old man’s yellow minivan.
Just then, Margarito’s private phone began to ring again. A young voice accustomed to giving orders roared on the other end of the line.
“Padrino. How are you?”
The chief didn’t answer.
“What’s your position? Are you still at the scene?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m on my way.”
“There’s no need. It’s all over, and the army’s here.”
He heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass and gathered that his interlocutor had poured himself a tall drink.
“Is it true that Ricardo’s dead?”
“It is. Have you heard anything?”
“No, I just found out. Do you want me to send some people your way?”
“No need. Better get your folks off the street, they’ll be going heavy with the patrols. I’ll come to you; will be there soon. What’s the car of the day?” Every so often they changed the password that allowed access to his godson’s turf.
“Ferrari. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make sure justice is served.”
“How?”
“Over and out.”
Margarito took one last look at the place where his men had fallen, now under the army’s guard. He got into the minivan, and they drove off.
Pangtay was waiting for them in the garage in a new SUV. In any flat, low-lying city, a car like that would draw attention, but with all the cobblestones and steep streets in La Eternidad, it was the most popular kind of vehicle.
“Roberta,” he said to La Gordis, “you drive. Stay about two car lengths behind Carcamán and yours truly. Pangtay, you can go back to work.”
“So that’s that, then, sir,” he said, shaking the chief’s hand. He insisted on saying good-bye as if Margarito were already dead.
Pangtay opened the gate, made sure there wasn’t too much activity on the street, and let them out. A few blocks later they hit a red light and a few cars stopped behind them, Roberta’s included.
Margarito looked over at the old man behind the wheel: he was skinnier than a piece of spaghetti, more hunched than a question mark, and breathing so heavily it sounded as if he was hyperventilating. He was wound tighter than a spring at the thought that just by being in the same car as his boss—incidentally it was the most eye-catching vehicle in the precinct— he was risking his life. Margarito knew he’d feel terrible if anything happened to the old man because of him, so he waited until the light turned green and then jumped out, slamming the passenger door behind him.
“See ya, old man. Thanks for always sticking with me. Go straight from here until you hit Avenida Águila, then head back to the office.”
“But, boss—” the officer managed to say.
Before El Carcamán could do anything, Margarito was already walking against traffic toward Roberta’s car, amid a sea of honking horns. He opened the passenger door and sat down next to her.
“Make a U-turn.”
The woman, startled, did as she was told. Margarito noticed the unpleasant smell of fear coming off her.
“Where to, sir?”
It was nearly four o’clock.
“La Petrolera. Avoid Avenida Pancho Villa, there’s sure to be checkpoints there.”
La Gordis hesitated for a second, then stepped on the gas. The car sped down Avenida Lomas de Rosales, which connected the two colonias along what used to be an uninhabited ravine.
A few moments later, when they arrived at Parque de la Petrolera, Margarito told her to take a quick spin around, check for suspicious activity, then park near the small amphitheater, which looked worse every time he saw it. Roberta brought the car to a stop between two vehicles and they got out.
The amphitheater was empty. The rain had left its mark: there were dozens of puddles along the cement risers. A man stepped out from behind the rusty wall that stood in for a backdrop when he saw them coming up the main path. The two jumped when they saw him. He looked exactly like one of the dead hit men. If the chief had seen him on the street on a normal day, he would have given the order to bring him in. He was wearing a down vest over athletic gear and he had the look of an addict: skinny, bulging eyes, hair and nails as unkempt as his beard.
“You’re Chief González,” the individual announced.
Margarito and Roberta snapped to attention.
“I know you. You arrested my cousin.”
“And what was your cousin’s line of work?”
“He was a med student. Like me. You arrested him for possession of illegal substances, for doing exactly what we’re doing now, and you sent him to federal prison. Who would have thought …”
Try as he might, the chief couldn’t remember the case.
“You’re sure it was me?”
“You’re Margarito González?”
The chief grunted.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said and handed the man a couple of bills.
“Just to be clear, I don’t sell these. But your gratuity is appreciated.”
“Come on, asshole. My arm is killing me.”
“I have to warn you about a few things. First of all, you can’t drink a single drop of alcohol while you’re on these things. It’s a death sentence. You’d stop breathing. Got it?”
The chief nodded and raised his hand to his shoulder.
“One question: how are your bowel movements?”
Roberta had to hold her boss back to keep him from punching the specialist. Once he calmed down, the young man approached again.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that this stuff can cause severe constipation, so I brought a laxative along, ju
st in case.” Once it was clear the crisis had passed, he added, “What a temper, jeez.”
He showed Margarito the pills, but instead of handing them over, he held them under the chief’s nose and sermonized: “One every twelve hours. No more. Don’t open them or dissolve them: swallow them whole. They’re time-release capsules. If you mess around with them, you could end up in respiratory failure or even die. Don’t be alarmed if you experience nausea, vomiting, dry mouth, drowsiness, difficulty concentrating, or if you sweat more than usual. But be very careful if you get a case of vertigo, notice distention in your abdomen, have trouble breathing, or see ghosts.”
The two police officers stared at him incredulously. The young man felt obligated to explain.
“I’m not saying that Casper the Friendly Ghost is going to pay you a visit, but you may suffer from auditory or visual hallucinations. Seeing or hearing things that no one else does.”
Roberta looked at her boss with concern.
“Last thing: if you stay on these for too long, you’ll be addicted for life. Got all that?”
The chief grabbed the pills from him and stuck them into his pocket.
“You don’t want the laxative?”
Roberta looked at the young man, who clearly didn’t understand the risk he was running.
“Whatever, up to you. Pleasure doing business with you, Chief. I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”
And he left, singing, “Sorpresas te da la vida, ay Dios …”
As soon as he was gone, the chief turned to La Gordis.
“Take me to my apartment. I need to change my clothes.”
They were just rounding the corner when Pangtay called.
“Chief, avoid the downtown area. I repeat. Avoid downtown. There are reports of suspicious persons outside your house. Don’t go there.”
“Shit. What do you mean, suspicious persons?”
“The reports say three white trucks, boss.”
“With three letters painted on each side?” The chief was referring to the letters CDP, for Cartel del Puerto. Los Viejos. The members of his godson’s criminal organization would spray-paint the initials on the sides of their trucks before heading in a caravan to confront their rivals or carry out an execution. Early the year before, a caravan of thirty vehicles passed through La Eternidad, headed north to wage a take-no-prisoners war on the outskirts of the city. Margarito, who’d been given prior notice, told his people to let them pass. He would never forget El Flaco’s face as he counted the immense, identical trucks with tinted windows and looked at the chief without daring to ask. What could Margarito have told him, anyway? Those savages were the law now. No one else had that much authority, that much firepower—no one else in this part of the country, at least.
“No, boss, no letters.”
“Got it,” he said and hung up immediately. He wasn’t about to take any chances.
“To the office?”
“No. Take me to the beach.”
La Gordis looked at the pills in the chief’s hand.
“Boss, you might not want to risk it.”
Margarito looked at her and put the pills back in his pocket. She was right: there were better ways to get to hell.
When they reached the corner, they caught sight of a roadblock of white pickups.
“We can’t go that way,” said Margarito. “Turn here.”
They followed the avenue past the university, turned without stopping at the red light once they got to the brewery, and followed a series of side streets, each named after a thriving oil city. A few minutes later, they crossed the train tracks that served as the border between the city and the coast. After that intersection, they passed fast-food joints, liquor stores with ample freezers outside, gas stations, pharmacies, shops selling bathing suits, bars where all kinds of business were done, motels where crimes were committed on a weekly basis, whorehouses of mixed repute, and warehouses holding contraband and weapons from the United States and even small shipments of drugs and people needing a place to rest before continuing their journey north.
Back when he was starting out, the chief knew where just about every family in the area lived because he walked those streets daily. In certain neighborhoods he could choose a block at random and tell you everyone who lived in each building. But that was when La Eternidad still had a hundred thousand residents, before the town turned into a city, before the tourism boom and the fever for building residential complexes for foreigners and millionaires. For a while already, it had been impossible to wrap your head around the city. He asked Roberta to stop at a convenience store and buy him a cola.
“You don’t want anything to eat?”
The same thought passed through their heads: no one’s future is certain, much less a police officer’s, much less in La Eternidad. Roberta hesitated a moment before leaving him alone, but eventually ran into the store as if she were racing to the scene of an emergency. Margarito released the safety on his gun and didn’t for a second take his eyes off the rearview mirrors. In no time at all, Roberta was hurrying back to the car. As she got in, she handed the chief a plastic bag containing, from what he could tell, ham, cheese, a roll, and a large bottle of cola. Another local custom: it was easier and cheaper to buy a bottle of soda than a bottle of water.
They crossed the dump, where the poorest of the poor were born, lived for a few years, and then died without ever having left: miles and miles of houses built from cardboard and trash.
Someone had painted a huge, intricately detailed image of La Santa Muerte, Our Lady of the Holy Death, on the wall around the shantytown.
Before they crossed the avenue leading to the beach, they paused to study their surroundings. Margarito was surprised to see such a heavy military presence: two convoys of soldiers were stationed at the refinery’s entrance. If they’d been there seven years ago, Los Nuevos probably wouldn’t be stealing gas straight from the pipeline today.
“What do we do?” asked Roberta, anxiously.
Margarito pointed to a dirt road that ran alongside the dunes next to the highway. It was the bumpiest drive of Roberta’s life. Every few feet the car pitched upward and then fell into a deep trough, tossing its passengers around.
They couldn’t afford to pass through a checkpoint: that would just be announcing their whereabouts to their attackers. So they took side roads, passing the charred frame of a vehicle every so often. Their route was so circuitous it would take Roberta hours to find it again if she tried. They passed a white enclosure wall more than two thousand feet long, on the other side of which they could make out an enormous white mansion that belonged to one of the port’s union leaders. Then they caught sight of the hill where the oil workers’ union had built a recreation center for its members. Eventually, they reached the part of the beach where new luxury homes were being constructed.
“Turn in here,” he said.
They passed another unfinished project of the oil workers’ union: a hospital the union leader had started just before his political enemies brought him down. Over ten stories tall, it contained a hundred rooms, none of which were ever completed. Rumors circulated about the project for a while; then people gradually forgot about it. When the guards left, no one hesitated to go in and take whatever there was, break windows, spray graffiti on the walls. Now it was just a huge, rusted-out shell. They kept driving; when they came to a curve in the road, Margarito told Roberta to slow down.
They could hear the roar of the sea. The road disappeared under the weeds. Behind the veil of a row of pine trees stood the Garza Blanca condominiums.
“Go to the guard station and ask for Panda. Tell him someone from Los Coquitos is here to speak with him. I’ll stay here.”
He set his two cell phones to vibrate; slid his gun into the front of his pants, under his shirt; and waited. Roberta came back two minutes later, reeking of fear, the poor girl. Two steps behind her, standard procedure in dealing with suspicious characters, followed the immense Panda Gónzalez, his focus as
sharp as an eagle’s and his hand on the butt of his gun, ready to draw. When he recognized Margarito’s profile, he hurried over to the car.
“I thought it might be you! What can I do for you, boss?”
“I have to talk to you in private.”
The color drained from the rent-a-cop’s face.
“Come on, then. We don’t want anyone to see you,” he replied, just the same.
A wave of pain swelled in Margarito’s belly and he cursed his luck.
“Are you alone?”
Panda nodded. “Until tomorrow at three, when the new shift comes on.”
Margarito got out of the car and walked over to La Gordis.
“Sweetheart, I’m staying put. You get back to work and don’t take any risks. When I call,” the chief continued, “come pick me up right here.”
She nodded.
“Boss?” she said, before he walked away.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to take them?”
“What?”
“The pills. I was just thinking … If I were you … I mean, what if they wanted to poison you? That guy didn’t seem too trustworthy. I even think I saw him once with the Three Stooges.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay? I could stand guard.”
The chief breathed a grateful sigh before responding.
“No, you’re more use to me there. Get back to work and wait for my call. You’ve got a bright future ahead of you. Just help me close this case.”
He grabbed the heavy bag of provisions and headed for the dunes. When he’d climbed to the top of one, he turned and waved to Roberta. She looked as if she might have been crying.
“This way, hurry.”
Panda ushered him into the control room. It was much bigger than he’d expected: a six-by-twenty rectangle that served partly for storage and partly as an office for the guards.
“I heard on the radio what happened. I’m so sorry, boss.”
Margarito looked him in the eye and thought, Finally, someone who means what he says.
“What can I do for you?” the rent-a-cop asked.
“I need a place to hide and if there’s one thing you’ve got here, it’s houses.”
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