Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  “What do you want?” his ex-wife repeated, snapping Margarito back into the present. “What do you want and why are you here? Have you no heart?”

  Dr. Antonelli’s question was unfair. Of course he was upset about Ricardo’s death. Had she forgotten who taught him how to walk, drive a car, clean and load a gun? Give me a fucking break. This job isn’t like other jobs: you walk out on a tightrope the minute you put on that badge, and you don’t come down until you die of natural causes or they pick you off with a bullet, because being a cop is forever. That’s what he wanted to say, but he didn’t. If anyone in the world was suffering right then, it was that woman.

  “Shut the door, please. There’s a draft.”

  The chief carefully closed the door and settled into the shadows next to the refrigerator. The first thing he noticed was the sweet scent of plantain empanadas. The memories came flooding back.

  “I came to tell you it wasn’t me. I’m going to get whoever did this.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “I had to tell you.”

  “Who was it?”

  When Margarito didn’t answer, she lifted her face from her hands and howled like a cornered animal: “Who was it?”

  Margarito took a deep breath.

  “I’ll get him. For our son.”

  “Ricardo is dead. And they’re going to kill you too.” The kettle started to whistle on the stove, but the Italian didn’t seem to hear it. “You poor thing,” she went on, sarcastically. “The world has been so hard on you! You didn’t go to the funeral. You didn’t say good-bye to your son because you were out there doing your job.”

  “I couldn’t go,” he explained. “I sent those soldiers. If I’d shown my face, I would have been shot. You have no idea how many people are after me. There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar price on my head.”

  She looked up.

  “I need to know what the two of you talked about these last few times. Right now everything matters in solving this crime. I haven’t asked you for anything in twenty years, but I’m begging you now. Please. Try to remember.”

  His wife turned off the stove and poured herself a huge cup of hot water. She dropped in two bags of linden flower tea, collapsed onto the living room sofa, and took off her shoes. She took a long sip of the tea and fixed her eyes on the ceiling.

  “Until around two months ago, he’d tell me how things were going with him and eventually ask me about you. It was always the same. Then we didn’t talk for a while. As you can imagine, I was surprised when he took this job. I had a hard time understanding that this was how we raised him: to be great at what he did and work for the good of others. The last time we spoke, I asked him if he wanted a special meal when he came back, and he said he wanted plantain empanadas. He was going to come over for dinner … I asked if he and his wife had reconciled. Did you know he and Laura weren’t living together? They separated when he took the job. She didn’t want to come back here, didn’t want him to risk his life. Poor Laura … She was always so wrong about Ricardo, but she was right about this. She’s coming tomorrow to say good-bye. I don’t know what I’m going to say to her.”

  His wife rubbed her eyes: apparently the mildly soporific tea was taking effect. Margarito blinked and asked, “What else did he say?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Sandra?”

  “Hold on. I’m trying to remember.” The doctor closed her eyes and rested her head on the cushion behind her.

  Just when the chief thought she’d fallen asleep and was about to leave, she spoke.

  “He told me he was thinking of moving into one of the three luxury buildings they’re putting up along the beach, the ones with that flamingo sculpture. Someone offered him a good deal and he was thinking of buying the place when he got here.”

  Deep in the shadows, Margarito opened his eyes wide. A moment later, his ex started snoring and he decided it was time to go. As soon as he started to move, she added, “Close the door behind you,” and kept snoring.

  She’d said it peacefully, almost pleasantly. He hadn’t heard that tone of voice in nearly twenty years. Not since they were married and still lived together, back when she still thought her husband was a good person.

  Maybe there was a better place in some corner of the dream she was having, one where the three of them still lived together, where Ricardo was happy and still alive. He left on tiptoe, not wanting to disturb that dream.

  THE THREE LETTERS

  Margarito parked Panda’s car a few yards from his godson’s office, safe from prying eyes in the shadows of the red-light district. The only business there, aside from the three little bars for down-and-out types looking for a good time (La Lucha, Angel’s, Motel Flair), was a twenty-four-hour convenience store. In better days, there had been a dozen of these shops, and they could hardly keep up with the demand for condoms and alcohol from the patrons of the dives nearby; judging from the only customers visible from outside, they now made their money selling instant soup, heated up behind the counter, to a few rent boys, panhandlers, and hookers. The neighborhood had turned into a self-sustaining ecosystem: from the look of things, the kids hanging around the bars—the only other people who hung around there—were the offspring of the prostitutes who worked them.

  Ten years ago, the hill facing the malecón teemed with activity. Ever since the red-light district became part of the turf war between heavily armed crews, though, people stopped spending time there. Especially the clueless tourists with a knack for losing their wallets. He turned the corner and saw an old prostitute flirting with a few drunken soldiers; one of them was carrying a gigantic bottle of Bacardi. Margarito found it all very depressing. What a hand she’s been dealt, he thought and immediately corrected himself. Who are you kidding, buddy—you’re not that much better off.

  The place changed names every four years or so. It had been called Blue Skies, Arriba Juárez, the Wild Rose, the Captain, Mystic, Magic, Ramses, and, most recently, Manhattan—the unifying concept behind the gaudy decorative failure that was its current facade.

  He’s nothing like his father, who hated drawing attention to himself. The infamous Tigre Obregón was far from the sociopathic monster the press made him out to be. On the contrary: he counted a district attorney, three representatives from the governing party, a senator, the leader of the national union of electricians, a secretary of the economy, and two governors among his closest friends. He also had strong family values, of course, and respected the noble institution of marriage: after all, he’d fathered nine children with five different women. At the turn of the millennium he suffered a stroke and handed control of the business, as he called it, to the most competent of his sons, the reckless Joel Obregón, godson to the chief. But there was a world of difference between Joel and his father.

  Unlike his progenitor, the son started dipping into the organization’s product at a young age. Margarito couldn’t understand how he slept or kept his head enough to keep himself on the throne. Between the ages of twelve and fifteen, before he became a regular at luxury rehab centers (and long before he founded one of his own to ensure a pleasant stay), the only things he cared about were Ferraris. His horizon broadened when he turned twenty and discovered Lamborghinis. Then came the Porsches, and now it seemed he was on to Jaguars. When he finally developed a taste for girls and partying, both his father and the chief breathed a sigh of relief. Lately he’d been spending his days conceiving (and bankrolling) nightclubs known for their design in cities across Mexico.

  Under the Statue of Liberty sketched in neon lights above Manhattan’s door, three guys watched Margarito approach. Their movements indicated they’d been partaking enthusiastically of the house special. They weren’t particularly tall or built, but, with their guns barely concealed under their shirts, they were the only ones smiling in that depressing place. As he got closer to the first bouncer, the chief flashed his badge.

  “I’m with the guy who drives that Ferrari,” he said, pulling
the velvet rope back for himself.

  “Hey … hey!”

  Margarito turned, and the bouncer flashed him a wide, wide smile.

  “Aren’t you Chief Margarito?”

  He didn’t stop to answer. He was already halfway inside when he heard: “How long you think it’ll be before the bullets start flying?”

  He made an effort to keep himself from going back and laying the guy out. He didn’t have the time. Given what he was paying the Colonel, every hour cost him two grand. So he ignored the comment and headed straight into the club.

  There weren’t twenty girls on the dance floor, but they were all euphoric. As always, the VIP table was set up right under the DJ booth, and there was his deadbeat godson, enjoying the company of four gorgeous teenagers, his entourage, and the sycophants du jour in their respective Panama hats. Margarito’s godson signaled to his bodyguards to let the chief pass, and Margarito walked over and sat in the space that had been cleared next to him.

  “You have no idea how sorry I am, Padrino,” he said, giving the chief a hug and thumping him loudly on the back. Margarito nodded and examined the boy’s face. The boy rubbed his nose.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Before the chief could respond, he’d already called over the waiter. “Bring him a tequila, from my personal stock.”

  He looked at the grayish hue of Margarito’s face and his bandaged arm and patted him on the back again.

  “I see you shaved. Looks good. How have you been holding up?”

  “Hanging in.”

  The four long-legged babes with him wore tight miniskirts, plunging necklines, and towering heels. Their manicures alone would be enough to keep a salon in business. When Joel finally figured out that the chief wasn’t going to talk in front of them, he gave them a nudge.

  “Don’t you ladies wanna go dance a little?”

  The tallest of them, a beautiful girl with sad blue eyes, stood and the others followed suit. The chief’s godson signaled the DJ and a wave of electronic music flooded the space. Clouds of dry ice swirled around the girls as they stepped onto the dance floor. The only ones who stayed were two guys with the look of hungry jackals sitting to the left of his godson. They’re just waiting for the right moment to strike. One of these guys is going to end up in charge.

  The chief’s godson patted him on the back.

  “C’mere, c’mere. I can’t hear you over there,” he said and turned to the first jackal. “You, Sticks, give my godfather here something to take the edge off.”

  His subordinate opened a briefcase, pulled out a bag of cocaine, and placed it on the table. Margarito declined. His godson looked him over again.

  “Your shoes are all worn out, Padrino. They’re ratty as fuck. Have you been walking everywhere?”

  “I borrowed a car.”

  “I saw on the news what they did to the one Papá gave you. Those fucking bastards. But don’t worry. They’re gonna pay for this. Pepe!” he shouted to the second jackal, “Give my godfather your truck.”

  His assistant pulled a Ford key ring from his pocket and held it out to the chief, who declined the offer with another movement of his head. His godson was getting uncomfortable. More to feel the chief out than anything else, he asked, “What happened to your arm? And your face?”

  “My shoulder got dislocated during the attack, and this”—he touched his face—“this was Los Nuevos.”

  “You saw them?” asked his godson, a glimmer of lucidity finally flashing across his face. Margarito nodded.

  “Let’s just say they called a meeting, and I couldn’t say no.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Margarito’s godson sprang forward in his chair. “Why’d you go see that pack of mangy dogs, huh? You don’t trust me? You could’ve come here. We’d have taken care of you.” Then he added, under his breath, “The next time they call you, give me a heads-up. Whenever, wherever. You know I value that kind of information.”

  The chief looked at his godson. He was running out of patience. This time it was Margarito who rested a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “And you, who runs such a large organization and who’s become so powerful, what have you heard about what happened?” His godson, visibly uncomfortable, tried to wriggle out from under the paw resting on his back.

  “Did you come here to interrogate me?”

  The jackal sitting closest to them shifted forward in his chair, and Margarito saw his hands drift toward the mother-of-pearl grips of the two guns sticking out of his waistband.

  “What do you take me for, son?”

  “It’s just that you seem pretty tightly wound, Padrino. Here, drink your tequila,” suggested his godson, taking the opportunity to put some distance between them. Margarito didn’t move or take his eyes off him, so his godson had a sip of his own drink.

  “I haven’t seen much of you lately, Padrino. You wouldn’t happen to be cozying up to Los Nuevos, would you?”

  Margarito shook his head.

  “I risked my life to save your father, I got him out of jail. I was the only one there at his side when Los Nuevos rose up and the bullets started flying. I lost my reputation and my son to keep his business afloat. And now you can’t even answer a simple question for me.”

  “Those fucking dogs,” the heir to the Cartel del Puerto said, shaking his head, as if the men who’d planned the attack that killed Ricardo were evil incarnate. “Who the hell would’ve thought things would get so bad here?”

  “You haven’t exactly been standing on the sidelines.”

  “Los Nuevos want to destroy us. We have to defend ourselves. Those fucking dogs. They started out working for us, licking my father’s boots. Then they decide to branch out on their own. You know my father always said we had to be invisible—only make our moves in the dark, like owls. That’s not an option anymore. There are too many people from other organizations out there, and they’re gaining ground. They’re out there during the day, threatening our dealers and our turf; they spread out and do whatever they have to do to get a foothold here. If they take La Eternidad from us, they control the route going north. The border. We have to defend ourselves.”

  Margarito looked at him impatiently. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’ll answer you. But give me your pistol first, Padrino.”

  The chief noticed one of the jackals move a hand toward his gun, so he took out his piece with two fingers and placed it on the table.

  “All right. Thanks, Sticks. Better safe than sorry. Look, Padrino. Two days ago, a man dressed in black with a thick mustache came by and had a talk with our head of security. He wanted us to recommend some guys for a job. They had to be Maras, from Guatemala. Now, hold on … He didn’t mention you at all, he just said he needed to straighten out an associate who wouldn’t listen to reason. That’s what he said. My head of security, I trust him completely, he asked me about it and I recommended a couple of Maras I’d worked with before. I had no idea you were the mark. We brought them in, made the introductions, and took our cut. That’s it. For us, it was just another transaction.”

  Margarito struggled not to hit his godson. “Who hired them?”

  His godson looked at him cheekily. “So you’re not angry?”

  “I’m not angry. How could you have known?”

  “Thanks, Padrino. I knew you’d understand, man-to-man.”

  He motioned to the waiter, who immediately came over with another drink.

  “Guy’s got money. We thought he was going after one of his associates; he’s done it before. Enterprise, Padrino. Papá always used to say it’s the root of all evil: if the guys running this country hadn’t just been looking to get rich we’d all be singing a different tune right now. Businessmen used to be wolves among men, but now they’re just jackals, fighting over the scraps. That’s enterprise for you. Bottoms up.”

  As he finished his drink and looked out through the base of his glass, the godson noticed that everyone had joined in the toa
st except the old man, who hadn’t taken his eyes off him. Margarito didn’t speak, so he went on.

  “Man, Padrino, I admire your restraint. Why don’t you stop messing around with the law? You see where that’s gotten you. Come work for us. We’ll take good care of you. This is a business, you know. We need all kinds.”

  Margarito shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  “No? And why not?”

  Margarito stared him down. “What would the mother of my son think when she heard I agreed to go work for the men who hired his killers?”

  His godson had no response. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Go after them with the full force of the law.”

  The boy’s jaw dropped. “Ricardo’s dead. You do get that, right? You know I’m really sorry about it, Padrino, and I never meant for it to happen … But listen, I’m worried about you. You know there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar price on your head, right? What are you going to do?”

  Margarito finally lit the cigarette he’d been holding, inhaled deeply, as though he wanted to blow out another flame inside him. He released a thick white cloud between them. “I just told you. I’m going to lay down the law.”