Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  “How could I miss it? It’s been all over the TV. And yeah, he barely made it out of there. The bastard was lucky.”

  “Sure, but you’ve got to hand it to him: he’s still got nerves of steel. They’re turning him into some kind of hero. The survivor.”

  “I know. He stands up and pop pop, there goes the first cholo, then pop, he takes the other one out with one shot, then—BANG—he hits a third one, who’s coming at him with a fucking machine gun, in the leg. Then he drops the guy coming at him from behind, as fast as I’m telling it now. Not bad for an old man. But his luck is running out.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it. Those fuckers were high off their asses. Anyone could have taken them out like that.”

  “The government’s offering a hundred thousand pesos for information on the attackers’ whereabouts.”

  “One fucking hundred thousand pesos? Stingy bastards. They obviously don’t want to find them. Who would turn them in for that?”

  “There’s fifty thousand dollars on the table for the other one.”

  “For Margarito?”

  “Uh-huh. At first they offered twenty, then they kept piling it on.”

  “That’s one hell of a death sentence. Bastard doesn’t have much time left. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

  “Who would, man?”

  “You know what I do want, though, is to get my hands on him before anyone else does. Who’d turn down fifty grand?”

  9

  Margarito’s phone rang a few minutes later. Roberta must have patched me through to the general, he thought. He held up his watch, careful to keep the call under a minute. But it was the mayor.

  “Chief! I’d given you up for dead.”

  “The pills knocked me out, but I’m on my way.”

  “Listen, I’ve given it some thought, and I think it would be best if someone else took over from here.”

  Margarito had seen it coming.

  “I’m getting my team together, and we’ve already made some real progress. If you pull me out now, that’s all gone.”

  “I’d rather—”

  “Just give me until tomorrow morning, and you’ll have my resignation.”

  He listened to the buzz of the telephone connection.

  “You’re that confident? Fine. In that case, you have until nine tomorrow morning. I’ll be expecting your letter of resignation by nine fifteen.”

  “I’ll deliver it myself, along with the assailants.”

  The mayor hung up, and Margarito heard Roberta breathing on the other end of the line.

  “You heard the man, Roberta. We have to hurry. Call me back, the minute’s almost up.”

  The call came in a few seconds later. La Gordis cut right to the chase.

  “Sir? Bad news. They found one of the two fugitives.”

  “The man in black?”

  “No, the cholo. They’d dumped him in the ravine.”

  “I’ll be damned. Go over everything with a fine-tooth comb, and let me know what you find.”

  “Yes, sir. And there’s something else.”

  “Tell me.”

  “They’re offering fifty thousand dollars for you.”

  “What?”

  “A few of the officers heard about it while they were taking statements.”

  “Who put up the money?”

  “No one knows who’s behind it. Could be guys in the trade, maybe Los Nuevos. But the word is definitely getting around.”

  Shit, he thought. I’m going to have to be careful.

  “Another thing. A video from the shoot-out got leaked to the press. One from the security camera in the jewelry store. It’s being aired across the country. You totally drop those guys.”

  His head throbbed. That was all the mayor needed to put him away. He needed to hang up.

  “Take care of yourself, kid. Stay out of trouble.”

  “Don’t worry, boss.”

  Fifty thousand dollars … If they were offering that for one of his colleagues, he’d be the first to cash in.

  He felt like he was going to throw up. He decided he needed to drink something and headed for the kitchen.

  His ex-wife would have loved this place; whoever owned it liked to cook. Behind the wooden cupboard doors, shelf after shelf held pans, blenders, and other stainless steel appliances he couldn’t identify. As he’d expected, the refrigerator was empty and stank of mildew. It had been unplugged for weeks. He looked through the open cupboard, but found only expired food. He kicked himself for not having Roberta buy him more soda. Son of a bitch, he thought. In a few hours, the whole world will have changed.

  Without his breakfast of champions, he was seized by a headache that was, in fact, a case of withdrawal. A shame, he thought. This fucking house was almost perfect. He didn’t have the strength to keep looking, so he went to the living room to lie down.

  Half asleep and with his head still pounding, Margarito spent a long time among the pleasant beach-house couches, watching the light filter through the glass door. Outside, the morning sun cast a calming glow over the sand—but there’s no peace for some men without their coffee and cola. He knew he couldn’t stay there long, but the light in the palm trees was delightful and, from where he was sitting, his problems seemed so far away. If it weren’t for the pain in his arm, he could almost believe it was all happening to someone else. Maybe it was the pills, but for a moment he felt like a guest in his own body and his only company was the bitch named Sorrow.

  He got up after five minutes. I’ve got to be careful. They’re not going to get me like they did the union leader.

  Before the violence started, La Eternidad was one of the best places on earth to live in. It wasn’t the most famous port, but it was one of the most peaceful.

  Drivers used to stop for pedestrians. You’d get a friendly, sincere greeting from everyone you passed on the street. You could leave your house or your car unlocked, your heart open; you could take your girlfriend for a walk under the stars, let your kids play soccer in the street. But that was then. None of that’s possible now, when everyone does whatever they want and your survival instinct screams: Keep your mouth shut and your eyes down, and get out while you still can. It’s every man for himself.

  Margarito knew the men behind the violence, the ones who were fighting over the port. Hell, they’d even worked together. For starters, he’d known the head of the Cartel del Puerto in La Eternidad since before he got into the trade.

  One night he and La Tonina were on patrol in the old Jeep when they detected unusual activity at a private home: a guy was taking packages from inside the house and loading them onto a pickup truck. They figured it must be the thief from Colonia Petrolera whose arrest meant a reward, so they drew on him. But the guy said it was his house, showed them the keys, and insisted the vehicle was his too. There was still something strange about that truck full of packages, though, so they put the squeeze on.

  “And what do we have here, you little sneak?” The packages were different shapes and sizes, but they were all wrapped in the same brown paper. Margarito tore open one of the bigger ones: it was a fancy new television set from the United States—the latest model, with a remote control and rabbit ears.

  “Weeelllll, well, well. You’re cooked, papá. Cuff him.”

  “Son of a bitch,” laughed the man. “There must be some mistake.”

  The officers looked at each other wearily. Which made sense, since they’d been on duty for forty-eight hours straight. When Margarito grabbed his billy club and started walking toward him, though, the man admitted he had contraband.

  “Okay, okay.” He wasn’t begging, so much as he was laughing at the situation. “Just don’t hit me. There’s no need. I got around gringo customs, Mexican customs, and three federal checkpoints on the highway—and now I’m getting arrested by two cops on my way into my own home to have a cup of coffee. I just got back from the border. Look, this is what I came down here for.”

  The man pointed
to a package and Margarito tore it open. Inside was a small electric coffeepot.

  “It’s the fucking latest and greatest. You wouldn’t believe this thing. It’s practically a robot. Listen, it’s cold out and I just wanted a cup of coffee. That’s it.”

  “You a smuggler?”

  “Come on … a smuggler? I deal in building materials and electronics. And the occasional bottle of whiskey.”

  They loaded him into the patrol vehicle, handcuffed, and made a deal.

  “You take him back to the station and lock him up. Tell whoever’s at the front desk that we caught him in flagrante for robbery. I’ll find a car, load up this stuff, and leave it in your living room.”

  Margarito, who’d had a talent for strategizing his moves ever since he was young, shook his head.

  “Why would you go find a car, kid, when we’ve got the truck right here? We’ll take that too. Waste not, want not.”

  “And if this numbskull rats us out?”

  Margarito sighed.

  “Fine. We’ll take him to lockup together, then come back for the stuff. Bring the television and the coffeepot as evidence.”

  “Maybe just the coffeepot,” said his partner. “Was thinking I might keep the TV.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” said the man in cuffs, still laughing. “Really, though. You guys sure are dense. You don’t know a friend when you see one!”

  “Shut it, asshole. When we get to the precinct we’ll check for priors. Let’s see who’s laughing then.”

  The man fell silent.

  “Oh, so you’ve got priors? Uh-oh, papá … Looks like someone just stepped in it.”

  “Doesn’t look so tough now, does he?”

  “Man, do we get a bonus for bringing this punk in?” asked La Tonina. “’Cause if not, why bother?”

  “My dear officers,” the smuggler began, leaning forward from the back seat. “What kind of reward are they offering for me? A thousand pesos? Fifteen hundred?”

  He was pretty close: it wasn’t a lot of money, which is why they had to produce a steady stream of arrests and didn’t care whether they handed over the guilty party or some innocent sap they’d dressed up for the occasion. La Tonina looked at him in the rearview mirror.

  “Let’s say it’s two thousand pesos,” the smuggler continued. “I can do better than that if you take me to my office. I have a safe there.”

  The officers barely glanced at one another.

  “How much are we talking?” La Tonina replied.

  The smuggler looked at them and did a quick calculation.

  “Two thousand dollars. Each. In cash.”

  That’s when they realized the man in the back of their car wasn’t just any perp. It was the middle of the night, probably three, three thirty. No one was going to be looking for them at that hour.

  To the officers’ surprise, he directed them to an office building downtown, right across from the Bank of Mexico, one block from headquarters. A night watchman opened the door for them, and they went up to the third floor.

  “Congratulations, gentlemen,” he said as he walked up the marble staircase. “You’re doing the right thing. I’m a peaceable man, I don’t want any trouble. I make friends wherever I go.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” said La Tonina. “Try to screw us, and you can kiss your ass good-bye.”

  Two thousand dollars was the annual salary for cops like them, including bonuses. But at that point they were there out of curiosity as much as anything else. If this asshole is offering us two thousand dollars, they thought, he’s got to be worth a hell of a lot more.

  “Don’t try anything.”

  A voice stopped them cold as soon as they walked into the office. He saw the shocked expression on the face of La Tonina, who was looking over his shoulder, and realized they were in a jam. Just as he was about to turn, Margarito felt metal press into his spine and prudently put his hands in the air. Whoever it was behind him withdrew the gun and said, “On your knees, both of you.”

  “Easy, now. These are my friends,” said the smuggler. “Keep an eye on them, of course, but have them sit over there in those chairs. And get their identification.”

  The man behind them relieved them of their wallets in a flash and tossed them onto the desk. The cops sat down with their hands up while the man they’d arrested just a few minutes earlier walked over to his safe, whistling the mariachi classic “El son de la negra” the whole time. Out of the corner of his eye, Margarito saw that the safe was full of bundled money. Resting on top of the piles was a big serrated knife with a staghorn handle, and off to the side was something that looked horrifyingly like a human limb.

  “These two picked me up right after you dropped me off,” he said to the man standing behind them. “Good thing I’d sent you here. Now, now,” he cautioned one of the officers. “Don’t even think about it.”

  La Tonina, whose right hand had been inching toward a heavy paperweight, put both hands up again. The smuggler exchanged a glance with Margarito, who’d been eyeing the inside of the safe with concern. The smuggler didn’t seem like such a nobody anymore. He was around forty, a plump five foot six with blond hair and pale skin. At first glance, he looked like the son of the Spaniards who’d settled in La Eternidad, but it took only a word to give him away: his lack of refinement spelled out a life spent in the sierra. That’s when Margarito realized who he was.

  For years, his photo—taken when he was much younger, with more hair on top and less flesh around the middle—had hung on the wall of the precinct. He was wanted for the murder of a customs officer, though his name was tied to numerous other crimes. Margarito knew that Elijah had nearly caught him a few times with traps set especially for him. On each of those occasions, the suspect had found a way to avoid capture just when Elijah thought he had him.

  “He’s the slipperiest bastard I’ve ever seen,” his mentor had said. “A tough one, big game.”

  He was known as the cleverest smuggler there was of alcohol and electronics, able to make the seven-hour trip to the border and back in five. Now, all the coke and marijuana dealers in the state reported to him. El Tigre Obregón. One of the FBI’s and DEA’s most wanted. A man who butchered anyone who betrayed him. And there he was, right in front of Margarito, getting something from his safe.

  The smuggler looked at the two officers, estimating their price, or how much they could cost him. Then he took out two bundles and set them on the desk.

  “Two and two make four.”

  The officers didn’t blink.

  “Those were the terms, no? Candelario, I’d like to introduce you to two new friends.” He glanced at a guy with thick arms and a thick head of hair who was almost as tall as him.

  “Is it me, or did it get fucking cold again?”

  The smuggler opened a small wardrobe and pulled out a jacket that looked like real leopard hide. Then he grabbed the knife and what turned out to be, to Margarito’s and La Tonina’s relief, a huge leg of serrano ham. Finally, he sat at his desk, put on a pair of glasses, and went through the two wallets.

  “This one here is Epigmenio Torres Merino. The other one … Jesus, is your name really Margarito?”

  El Tigre Obregón erupted in laughter again.

  “Margarito González. You’re awfully big for that little name, aren’t you?”

  La Tonina cleared his throat.

  “Well. I’d wanted a cup of coffee, but seeing as how you gentlemen seized my coffee maker, it looks like I’m taking myself off the wagon. Whiskey or tequila? Hmm? Fine. Tequila, it is.”

  He turned to grab a bottle and three shot glasses from the safe. He filled each until it overflowed and pushed two of them toward the officers. After they’d breathed off the alcohol’s fire, the man spoke.

  “I’m an entrepreneur, a businessman. I don’t want any trouble. I do business with all the federales between here and Matamoros. The chief customs officer is like a brother to me, and those assholes at the checkpoints mig
ht as well be my kids. I’ve never had any problems. Now. Tell me. Just what kind of police are you, to come sniffing around my house? Might I interest you in some serrano ham, gentlemen?”

  They talked until six in the morning, when the four of them headed downstairs. They’d finished the bottle, but none of them felt it. They said good-bye with a hug.

  “See you around.”

  When they finally made it back to the Jeep, the man insisted they keep the television and coffee maker. Margarito looked at La Tonina and sighed.

  “We were going to seize his inventory, but we ended up being the ones taken in for questioning.”

  The next time he passed El Tigre’s house, he noticed it was being rented out. From then on, the man’s legend grew with every new rumor: That he’d moved somewhere safer, to a more affluent neighborhood; that he’d bought this and that warehouse. That business was booming. That he’d joined up with a few of the other young smugglers and the ladies who fenced their black market goods. That he didn’t even need to cross the border anymore because he had a whole network to do it for him.

  He knew, because Candelario had told La Tonina that the crisis of 1982 was a trial by fire for El Tigre. The middle class, which had always clamored for medicine and merchandise from north of the border, stopped buying because they had no way to pay for any of it. With more than fifty cops on his payroll, El Tigre had to diversify. La Tonina told him that one night when El Tigre really had no idea how he was going to get himself out of the red, they were drinking in one of the restaurants he owned along the highway in Texas and a Colombian showed up. He wanted them to move some of his blow, and that’s when it hit him: they knew the roads, the routes; he’d developed relationships—friendships, even—with all the customs agents. Over the years, he’d turned them from a vicious pack of dogs used to extorting and robbing travelers, into docile house pets trained to collect a commission on every truckload of contraband that crossed the border. He knew every gas station, every motel, every warehouse: the stretch of map between La Eternidad and the north held no mysteries for his organization. The problem was the merchandise, which just wasn’t profitable anymore. So he joined a new league: he stopped transporting alcohol and electronics (tequila for the Texans, televisions for the Mexicans) and dedicated himself to moving weed and blow. He traded his fleet of cars for pickups, trucks, and trailers. He founded phantom businesses, pretended to become a farmer, a rancher, a fisherman. It went so well that he stopped working for the Colombians and they started working for him. Back then, in the seventies and eighties, the best weapon for keeping people in line was a fat wallet.