“That dude’s got some serious luck.”
“Not really. Did you hear they burned down the Hotel de las Ballenas that same day? The place he ran with his wife? No one knows what happened to her.”
“Shit, tough break. That’s what he gets for coming back, I guess.”
“But that’s not all.”
“I know. They promoted La Gordis: she’ll be the first female police chief in this part of the country. You’ve gotta have a real set of brass ones to take that job, the way the city is these days, right?”
“She can handle it. And get this: they’re pinning a medal of honor on La Muda for her service on the force. They’re saying that without her, the kidnapping never would have gotten solved.”
“Seriously? She’s police?”
“For ten years, already. Every now and then she’d help the chief out with a side operation, as Margarito put it. Who do you think found the spot where they were keeping the girl?”
“What I didn’t like was what happened to El Coronel de los Muertos.”
“Tell me about it. Who’d have thought he’d end up caught in the cross fire between his people and the other organization?”
“I mean, he’s not bulletproof. That’s why he never made it to his meeting with Margarito. Did you know his truck wasn’t even armored? I saw his body myself.”
“And what about the godson?”
“It seems a light went on upstairs for the first time. Instead of standing by his people, the kid hopped on a private jet to Mexico City. Looks like he hooked up with a pretty big player in exchange for agreeing to bankroll his presidential campaign. It doesn’t look like the feud between the old and the new guard will be ending anytime soon.”
“So nice to know there’s justice in this land.”
“They’re turning Margarito into a national hero. Seven million people have already seen the video of him protecting his son. If only they knew the skeletons their angel has in his closet.”
“Yeah, well. The bad thing about this country is that we have a terrible memory.”
“Get this, though. The best part? He’s been named the director of a regional anti-kidnapping institute.”
“That’s it. This city’s about to get intolerable. I’m sending myself into exile.”
“Don’t go anywhere. This is about to get good. Anyway, we have to pay our respects to Margarito, like everyone else. There’s a religious service later today in memory of his son, since he couldn’t make the other one. At the Sagrado Refugio de los Pescadores. He’ll probably send some work our way sooner or later, now that he ended up without any muscle. Who knows, maybe we’ll even be able to come out of the shadows. What do you think, should we send a wreath or a bouquet?”
Epilogue
Panda wanted to keep talking, but Margarito was busy with a phone call to La Eternidad’s new chief of police—his former report, Roberta. Every so often, he’d tell him which road to take. As they drove across the black bridge, the rent-a-cop was struck, as he always was, by the sight of the city’s main avenue at that hour of the morning: the huge palm trees growing on either side of it had been there since long before the road came through. They passed the new hospital and kept going. When the vegetation changed and they came up on some pine trees planted alongside a gated community, the former police chief told him to turn.
They took an unpaved road, its potholes bouncing the fancy compact car into the air. At the top of one hill, two kids with a shovel asked for a donation “for maintaining the roads” and climbed up on the car’s fenders. It didn’t escape Margarito’s attention that the older one had a cell phone clipped to his waistband and stared insolently at the passenger and driver as he walked up to the window. He’s checking to see how many we are and whether we’re armed. These little bastards aren’t here for spare change. They’re lookouts. As he suspected, they hadn’t gone ten feet before the two kids started fighting, not about the tip he’d given them, but about which one would use the phone. Who are you calling, boys? the rent-a-cop wondered. Who’s paying you to keep watch?
“From here on out,” Margarito ordered, “don’t you fucking stop, Panda. If we see anyone coming our way, flash your brights twice and keep moving.”
They continued along the dirt road surrounded by the thick rows of pine trees until it opened to a huge, completely deserted soccer field. That was the end of the road.
Panda never thought he’d run into this kind of thing next to a residential area on the outskirts of La Eternidad and thought he’d taken a wrong turn. He was just getting ready to turn around when Margarito told him to drive over to the nearest goal.
“What?”
“Drive onto the field and park near the goal.” The order didn’t make any sense, but Panda obeyed.
What’s the point of having a soccer field out here in the middle of nowhere? the guard wondered.
As they passed between the pines, the rent-a-cop noticed that the soccer field was much longer and narrower than usual and that there were no bleachers or chairs for the spectators, but the ground was marked with thick layers of quicklime and there was a regulation goal set up on either end.
As soon as they cleared the pines, a loud whistle to their left turned their heads.
“Hey, assholes!”
At least twelve people, standing in front of three pickups and one stake-body truck were waving at them frantically from the other side of the goal. When he saw the guard draw his piece, Margarito stopped him cold.
“Fucking Panda. Put that thing away.”
He hurried to park alongside the other vehicles. He noticed that only three or four of the people standing around them carried weapons in holsters clipped to their belts. The rest of them were dressed in the simple clothing of manual laborers: boots, denim, wide belts, some embellished with charro embroidery; durable plaid shirts, leather jackets or Windbreakers. When he realized that they looked more like cargo loaders than mercenaries, Panda breathed easy again. Of course, he’d feel a lot better if someone would tell him what the hell was going on.
Margarito told him to cut the motor.
“Wait for me here.”
“I’d rather go with you.”
“All right. But whatever you do, don’t take out your gun or your badge.”
“What the fuck?” yelled one of the armed men, staring at them reproachfully. They could hear a high-pitched buzzing in the distance, as if someone were using a chainsaw on the pines. “You could have caused an accident.”
“Sorry. My driver doesn’t know the place,” Margarito replied. “Who’s in charge here?”
The man shouted over to his associates.
“Eleazar! Someone here to see you.”
A man with a thick mustache and a ten-gallon hat got out of one of the pickups and walked over to the newcomers. He had a huge sidearm holstered at his waist.
“What can I do for you?”
“My name is Margarito González. I’m a friend of La Colombiana’s.”
Margarito reached out his right hand, but the rancher didn’t move. When he realized a formal greeting wasn’t going to happen, Margarito added, “We were at a cookout La Colombiana hosted a long time ago. Remember? She made us bandejas paisa.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. Well, what do you want?”
“I’m trying to find her. And a guy named Carlos Treviño.”
The rancher looked at him for an instant, then at Panda, and said he didn’t expect anyone would be seeing Carlos Treviño for a long time to come.
“Payback’s a bitch,” he said, and spat angrily.
Margarito asked him what he meant.
“I hear they’ve sent the troops out after him.”
“The army?” asked Margarito. He found it hard to believe he wouldn’t have heard about that.
“No,” Eleazar answered. “Not those pricks, or the marines. I hear it was Los Nuevos, that he ran into them the day they were burning all those cars and there was an argument. Seems he ran into one
he didn’t like so much, some colonel. They say shots were fired, and your guess is as good as mine what happened to him.”
“Heads up!” shouted one of the men.
The buzzing they’d heard in the distance became a roar, and a sizable light aircraft appeared on the other end of the pine forest as if it had been skimming the treetops the whole time, landed, and finally came to a stop just before crashing into the second goal. The plane made an elegant circle and settled right outside the penalty area, as if it were getting ready to take a free kick. The name of the aircraft, El Mexicano, was painted on it in ornate calligraphy. Everyone there, except Eleazar and the newcomers, ran toward the plane.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Eleazar said, releasing the safety on his gun.
Shit, thought Panda, as he noticed the armed man standing behind Eleazar staring at them.
The door of the plane opened and a young woman with an immense smile dressed like a pilot in an action movie—big sunglasses, long white scarf, leather cap and jacket—ran her eyes over the crowd and raised an arm in greeting when she saw Margarito.
“What a surprise! Wait right there, Margarito.”
“Everything all right, Parce?” asked Eleazar.
“Stellar,” the pilot answered. “This fellow here’s a friend of mine.”
“I was about to run them off. They looked lost.”
As soon as the pilot exited the plane, six of the ranch hands hurried in and rushed out carrying packages of all sizes wrapped in brown paper, which they handed carefully to the men waiting by the trucks.
“Don’t touch the Blu-rays,” the woman shouted. “Those are for my personal collection.” She walked over to Margarito.
“Good to see you, sir,” she said, giving him a hug. She looked Panda over but didn’t say hello. “What can we do for you?”
Margarito cleared his throat. Eleazar wasn’t going to miss a word of the conversation.
“I’m looking for our mutual friend, Carlos Treviño.”
“Treviño?”
“Some people think he died last week. Others say he fled to the United States. That he took off from a secret airstrip. That he paid handsomely for the flight and got some help with his escape. That he was seen getting into a plane like this one.”
The woman took a deep breath.
“Why not? There are lots of airstrips like this one around here. And Treviño knows the area well.” A spark flashed in her eyes. “May I ask why you’re so interested in Treviño?”
“We have some personal business.”
“Hey!” shouted Eleazar. “Dick around on your own time!”
Three guys passed them carrying what appeared to be a refrigerator and loaded it onto one of the trucks.
“It’s too late in the day for them to be fucking around,” said Eleazar, checking his watch. He stepped between the pilot and the newcomers. “You, too. Don’t waste time. We need to stick to the schedule.”
“Look, friend—” Margarito tried to intervene, but the rancher wouldn’t be swayed.
“Time for you to be going.”
“Yes, of course, Eleazar. They were just leaving. See you around, gentlemen. It would be best if you didn’t come back here.”
Margarito sighed. “See you around, my friend. In the meantime, let me know if you see him.”
The pilot smiled mischievously.
“The only passenger I’ve had recently was a young lady going to meet her boyfriend at the border.”
The woman turned and walked toward the plane. Before boarding, she examined the bottom of the aircraft.
“I thought I scraped the bottom of the plane on those trees,” she said to the ranchers. “But, no, we’re fine. It’s not easy flying that low.”
Margarito González, former chief of police to La Eternidad and current director of the Tamaulipas Anti-Kidnapping Initiative, watched in frustration as the pilot pulled the door of El Mexicano closed. By the time he got back in the car, the other drivers already had their motors running.
“Who were those assholes?” Panda asked.
“You don’t want to know, partner. But I’ll tell you this: that goddamn plane is the key to the only mystery I give two shits about.”
“Back to La Eternidad, then?” the driver asked as they passed the young lookouts.
“Take me to my beach house. I deserve a break.”
As they got back on the highway, the plane appeared over the tree line. Panda watched its ascent in the rearview mirror, taking one last look at its twin engines and unusual form as it set off along its course.
The Last Word
This novel is dedicated to those who told me several of the stories that appear in its pages, and to those who declined to share theirs, offering instead an even more eloquent silence.
In literature: to Danilo Moreno, Francisco Goldman, Mario Muñoz, Christilla Vasserot, Luis Carlos Fuentes, Fernanda Melchor, Jorge Harmodio, Augusto Cruz, Antonio Ortuño, Claudio López Lamadrid, Andrés Ramírez, and Fernanda Álvarez, for their insightful comments on the first draft of this book. To César Aira, Bernardo Atxaga, Almudena Grandes, and Héctor Abad Faciolince, for the kindness they showed this Tampiqueño. To Dominique Bourgois, Amy Hundley, Tomasz Pindel, and Morgan Entrekin, for their collusion and their loyalty to my writing.
In memory: this book is for my father, Martín Solares Téllez; and for Daniel Sada and Federico Campbell: thank you for the games, the books, the words, the haiku, and the cappuccinos. But not in that order.
In life: this novel is for Florence Olivier, José Manuel Prieto, Quino and Alicia, Pietro and Maddalena Torrigiani; for my friends in La Paz: Paloma, Edmundo, Jorge, Mariana, and Sandino; for Alejandro Espinoza, Cristina Fuentes, Izara García, and Cecilia Medina Basave; for Diana Carolina Rey and Guido Tamayo, Diana Agamez, Mar Meléndez and Emiro Santos; Alina Interián, Forrest Gander, Rubén Gallo, Magali Velasco and César Silva, Gabriela León, Ricardo Yáñez, Guita Schyfter, and Hugo Hiriart; Luis Albores, Gerardo Lammers, Patricia Pérez, Ulises Corona, Rogelio Flores Manríquez, Gabriel Orozco, María Álvarez and Jaime Ashida, Lorenza Barragán and Jaime Martínez, Trino Camacho, Yael Weiss, Marcelo Uribe. For the Herrerías and the Cuevas in the streets of Veracruz, and for the Barragáns and Heredias around the world. For Taty and Armando, and for Gely, Luis, and Rosario in Monterrey.
For Vesta, Mateo, Mariana, and Joaquín. With all my love.
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