Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  Margarito’s friendship with El Tigre only got stronger when he was promoted. Under the protection of La Eternidad’s new chief of police, El Tigre bought mansions, hotels, travel agencies, art galleries, movie theaters, even entire shopping malls—businesses he could use to justify his income—and no one blinked an eye. The same thing that happens anywhere in the civilized world these days. El Tigre had set up his network so well that his money and drugs could move between the Texas border and the marijuana fields in Oaxaca and Guerrero or the labs in Cali without ever being disturbed. Who was going to mess with the state police? Margarito occasionally escorted El Tigre’s trucks to Gringoland himself, looking for a change of scene and a little pocket money. In five years, he was stopped only once by a Mexican border agent, who was surprised to see him in those parts.

  “What’s a patrol vehicle from La Eternidad doing in Matamoros? You’re seven hours out of your jurisdiction, kid. And why is your trunk full of tomatoes?”

  Margarito wasn’t intimidated.

  “Man, you have no idea how good these fucking tomatoes are.”

  The agent scowled at him. Before things escalated, Margarito shifted tactics.

  “You know Pepino Calles, the chief customs officer?”

  “Fuck yes I do.”

  “Give him a call and tell him Margarito’s here. I’ll wait for you.”

  The agent returned five minutes later.

  “Okay, I get it. You’re just passing through on a little joyride. Wasn’t there some kind of tip?”

  Margarito handed over two hundred dollars, they shook hands, and he was let through.

  In the late eighties, El Tigre had such a tight grip on the highways in Tamaulipas that he started renting them out. Knowing how safe it was to use those routes, and how they wouldn’t have any trouble with the police as long as they sent El Tigre Obregón’s regards, distributors from across the country would come to La Eternidad to strike a deal: they’d pay the fee to pass through, and it was settled.

  So you could say Margarito knew El Tigre from the beginning. Or, in his own words, since before they became compadres.

  They got together often to cut loose. The chief would show up at one of El Tigre’s many restaurants with a few girls and get the party started. Then, when they were good and hammered, the bad jokes would begin.

  “Tigre … you’re going to the slammer.”

  “Oh? For what?”

  “Illegal transportation of military weapons, money laundering, drug trafficking.”

  “No shit! Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Anytime they had a problem, El Tigre would say, “No, no, no. We’re going to talk this out, like men. What do you want? A friend or an enemy?”

  When El Tigre’s first son, Joel, was born, Margarito agreed to be his godfather.

  For years, Margarito was under the impression that Don Agustín’s people and El Tigre’s left one another alone. He knew all too well that the union leader didn’t think much of El Tigre and didn’t expect him to be around too long, though El Tigre ultimately outlasted him by a bit. Margarito would never forget the call he got from El Tigre late one night toward the end of the nineties.

  “Compadre, I need to talk to you right away. Drop whatever you’re doing and come see me. Please.”

  Margarito, who had been wrapping a few things up at the office, headed for Los Olivos, El Tigre’s favorite meeting spot. Of all his restaurants, it was the fanciest and most pleasing to the eye. There was a huge party going on, with mariachis and girls in miniskirts. Strange, thought Margarito. His birthday is still a way off. When El Tigre saw him, he waved him over to his table and sent everyone except his chief of security away. El Tigre’s eyes were teary, but the smile never left his face. He asked Margarito to join him in a tequila before they got to talking.

  “Are you on my side, cabrón? Are you with me? Time’s run out on someone close to you. If I can count on you, I’d suggest you stay here with me tonight. Let’s see if we make it to morning. Big things are coming.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Margarito. “Do you want me to send for my men?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. You just do as I do. What’s coming is so big there’s no running from it.”

  And he turned his focus to serving himself a tequila every five minutes. As soon as Margarito finished his, and, hell, that didn’t take long, El Tigre poured him another right away.

  “Have another. Now, cabrón.”

  If Margarito didn’t obey, El Tigre would quietly insist: “We’re not just drinking, here. I’m saving your life. You’ll thank me for this one day. I know how to repay a favor.”

  “But what’s this all about?”

  “Just wait, cabrón. Or are we not friends, anymore?”

  Every hour or two, El Tigre would look at one of his men and ask: “Now?”

  “Not yet, boss.”

  And two hours later: “Now?”

  “No, sir.”

  This went on until exactly seven in the morning, when even the mariachis had started to fade. El Tigre’s bodyguard approached him.

  “Now, sir.”

  His compadre jumped.

  “It’s time?”

  They brought him a telephone so he could take a call. El Tigre called for silence, listened to what was being said on the other end of the line, said good-bye, and hung up. Then he waved the mariachis over.

  “Play us ‘La Golondrina,’ if you would. That’s it for the great leader.” He looked at Margarito. “There are some soldiers over at your friend’s office. They’re taking him away.”

  The shock cut through the haze of tequila.

  “What do you mean, soldiers?”

  “Soldiers. Those guys who run around in green with a nasty look on their face, sometimes, and an ax to grind. Not too many. No more than fifty.”

  And that was how Margarito learned of the events that turned the port upside down. He learned that a military convoy arrived that night in a plane that landed on a government airfield, and within twenty minutes they were busting down Don Agustín’s front door with heavy artillery for betraying the new president and supporting the opposition party. That they arrested him and transported him in the same military airplane to a maximum security prison outside Mexico City. That they’d arrested the leader of the oil workers’ union, who’d been in charge for some fifty years. Some of Don Agustín’s closest associates followed in his footsteps through the prison gates, while the others, like Camacho, looked like they’d been through the wringer. No saint could protect them: all the saints were busy watching over El Tigre.

  He never paid much attention to the other ones, the more violent ones. Los Nuevos. It’s not as if they appeared overnight. They started out in the military, but they defected when El Tigre invited them to lock down the tougher routes and keep things running smoothly whenever a big shipment came in. Sometimes he’d even call Margarito in the middle of the night to ask if he could receive a package for him or give some friends an escort from the black bridge to the US border. That was how Margarito first met those guys out of their military uniforms. That was also how he ended up going with them on runs, to make sure the crew cab pickups and trailers supposedly full of produce, eggs, cutlets, clothes, or designer shoes made it safely to their destinations. When the customs agents saw them coming, they’d wave them into a special lane and they’d pass through without so much as showing their papers.

  It went on like that until they decided they could branch out on their own, without El Tigre, and founded their organization. That’s when things started getting really ugly. How could I not have seen this shit coming? Margarito often reproached himself. Elijah was right.

  These days, the residents of La Eternidad lock themselves in at sundown. They’re suspicious of their neighbors, their in-laws, their teachers; they don’t even trust the nuns at the Sagrado Refugio de los Pescadores.

  10

  The buzzing of his phone woke him up again. Goddamn fucki
ng pills. He had three messages waiting for him from La Muda. Margarito opened them one by one, praying the battery would last.

  THE GIRL WONT DRINK WATER HOW DO I GIVE HER THE MEDISIN?

  And then:

  THE GIRLS AWAKE THE OTHER TRIED TO RUN. WHEN R U COMING BACK? SEND HELP

  His phone was almost dead. Margarito answered:

  GIVE THE GIRL A SCARE AND SHOOT HIM IF YOU HAVE TO

  She answered immediately. She must have been glued to her phone.

  TO LATE THE BASTERD GOT OUT OF HIS CHAINS

  To which he responded:

  ON MY WAY

  No, thought the chief. Hell no. That money is my retirement fund. It’s mine, even if we have to take Treviño out of the picture sooner than planned.

  He looked out the window and saw the neighbors still playing basketball. He couldn’t leave with them out there, so his mind wandered back to the attack. What the fuck did I do to some fucking Guatemalan to make him come up here and ambush me? Someone definitely hired them to do the job and helped them plan it, but it wasn’t La Cuarenta. They had nothing to gain from it, and it’d put their whole organization at risk.

  He considered Los Nuevos, then thought about his godson and wondered if he might have it out for him. The kid was capable of anything. We were all screwed when he developed a taste for the product.

  Then there was the matter of the fifty thousand dollars. Margarito knew all too well what to expect. On the force, he’d had a front-row seat to observe what happened when that kind of price was put on someone’s head. It was just a matter of time before even the people closest to you started trying to cash in. Hell, he’d even done it himself. Like they didn’t slip him a little bonus for Elijah?

  In the distance, three fishermen tossed fish carcasses to the pelicans from their boat. The sea crashed against the rocks. Fuck. He still felt shaky, but he had to jog his memory: he needed to remember every word, every inflection of that phone call. Like a song. He had zero clues, no team he could trust. They’d killed his son and two of the three guys who’d always been at his side. They took out La Tonina and El Dorado, and they would have done the same to him and El Flaco if Roberta hadn’t shown up.

  He’d hoped his contact with the federales would help him trace the call. Now he knew it was impossible. With technology out of the picture, he’d have to rely on plain old intuition, the way he did thirty years ago, before the Internet and cell phones.

  All right, he thought. Who’s the cabrón that called me?

  It was ten at night.

  Let’s see …

  The machine of his intuition rumbled back into operation.

  It was a man’s voice. Not a teenager or some old geezer, either. A powerful bastard in his prime. Self-assured, the kind who thinks the world is his for the taking. All that, for sure, but there was something else. He had pronounced each word with exceptional care, as if he’d been planning his speech for a long time. As if he didn’t so much want to communicate information as cast a spell. That’s it: the bastard wanted to scare me, and he’s been planning it for a while.

  The windows of the house across the street reflected the sun’s light straight into his eyes and he needed to look down. All right. What did that asshole say? Your days are numbered; I’ve got bullets here with your name on them. He finally understood: the key to the whole thing was in that call.

  In his first moments of lucidity, Margarito asked himself what had bothered him so much about that phrase. He struggled with the question like a straitjacket before it hit him: The fucking punk said it like a prayer, or a spell, or a slogan.

  That’s it. That’s how I’m gonna get you, you son of a bitch.

  Things were about to start moving very quickly.

  According to his dying phone, it was seven thirty. If he hurried, he could still catch the perp and claim the ransom for the girl.

  Just as he was about to leave, he heard someone walk up to the door. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Panda González.

  “You awake? I went home and came back and you were still out. You didn’t answer when I talked to you, just gave me this blank stare.”

  Now that he mentioned it, he thought he’d seen his former report pass through his field of vision a couple of times. Fucking pills. Goddamn, was I wasted.

  “Take your time. I brought you something.”

  The guard handed him a small metal thermos.

  “Drink this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Chamomile. Cut fresh by my wife.”

  The chief took a sip from the container. It was the best thing he’d had to drink in a long time.

  “This is delicious. Best thing I’ve ever had.”

  “It’s fresh. That’s why it tastes so good.”

  He’d had only two sips, and he already felt something like calm settling into him. Amazing.

  “I need to pop out of here like a cork, Panda. Lend me your car.”

  The guard looked worried.

  “You’re not going to do anything illegal, are you?”

  “What do you think? I’m an officer of the law.”

  Panda handed over the keys.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Margarito climbed into the black compact car parked outside. It smelled of chiles and onions. He started the motor and cursed his luck when he noticed it was a stick shift: he’d have to figure something out if he was going to drive with that injured left arm.

  La Muda didn’t need words to insult him. She was so angry her frenetic stream of gesticulations lasted a good three minutes. The sweeping movements of her hands berated the chief in every tone imaginable. What happened to you, you piece of shit? Can’t you tell time? I’ve been waiting here for you for two days! She informed him they’d run out of water, the bathroom stank—she kicked in the door to prove her point—the fridge was empty, there was nothing to eat or drink. She had no dope left for the girl—who, by the way, would scream for help now and then—the guy kept trying to escape, she hadn’t slept in two days, the chief was the worst good-for-nothing son of a bitch the port had ever seen, and how dare he leave her hanging like that.

  “All right, all right! Goddamn it! What’s the matter, haven’t you seen the news?”

  With that, La Muda pointed to the television’s broken screen and kicked the wall. You had to hand it to her, the woman was expressive.

  “I’ll come for her first thing in the morning, okay? I’ll come for the girl tomorrow. Relax,” he said, passing her the bag of food and the bump of coke he always kept in his wallet. “And here’s the girl’s medicine. We’ll give it to her in a second. Now quit bitching at me and let’s get to work.”

  They put on their ski masks and got into character. He grabbed the voice distorter, grateful it was still working, and called the girl’s father. He picked up after three rings.

  “Get the money ready and place it in three trash bags. I’ll call you tonight to tell you where and how to make the drop. If there’s so much as a penny missing, your daughter dies.”

  “Hey, wait! Prove to me that she’s still alive.”

  Margarito kicked the metal door and slid open the peephole.

  “Say hello to Daddy.”

  “Dad! Dad!” wailed the girl.

  “Wait,” said De León. “Your ransom note mentioned my daughter’s birthmark. What does it look like?”

  “A triangle, with the three corners stretched out. And don’t you start second-guessing me or the girl gets it.”

  He closed the peephole and went back to the dining area.

  After he hung up, Margarito removed his ski mask and called for La Muda.

  “Come here, give me a hand with this.”

  They went to open the three locks on the closet in the back where Margarito kept his personal arsenal. The chief pulled out a menacing-looking shotgun, a Remington machine gun, and two assault rifles, then bent over to grab a very thick rope and a few magazines for his sidearm. Then he smiled with s
omething that resembled serenity. On his way out, he turned and grabbed a duffel bag with the words FOR THE EXCLUSIVE USE OF THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES OF MEXICO printed on it. It looked heavy. He locked the door behind him and gave the rope to La Muda.

  “Come with me.”

  They opened the door to the room where they were keeping Treviño. Margarito released the safety on his gun with a loud click.

  “Come out from there or I’ll skin you alive, cabrón.”

  Treviño stepped out from behind the door and put his hands up.

  “Tie him up again,” he directed La Muda.

  As they headed for the front door, he told his assistant he’d see her at six.

  “Got it? See you here at six a.m. I have a few things to take care of first.”

  Half the city was looking for him, but he still had time to go to the cemetery. As usual, there was only one guard, who made the rounds with his flashlight a couple of times every night. The man had a deep respect for the law and led Margarito to the corner where his son had been laid to rest. He even lit the area for him.

  “Give me a minute.”

  Margarito had just noticed that someone, probably his wife, had placed one of their son’s old stuffed animals on his final resting place. A little stuffed turtle. That was the only time he broke down. The night watchman recited the words he had ready for moments like this: “There, now. You’ll be together soon.”

  “You have no idea,” said Margarito. “But not just yet.”

  After a heavy, uncomfortable moment, the chief leaned forward and slid the turtle to the middle of the boy’s tomb. The night watchman was silent as Margarito got to his feet and said aloud: “To be continued, Ricardo.” Then he turned to the guard. “How do I get out of here?”