Guillermo looked at Chapo. Neither spoke.
“Let me introduce myself,” the man said. His tone was anything but polite. “They call me El Posolero. Do you know why they call me that?”
Guillermo and Chapo shook their heads. Their knees were shaking so badly it might have been more of a reaction to their fear than a negative gesture.
“They call me that because I make posole out of my enemies.”
The boys looked at each other.
“You know what posole is, sí?” El Posolero looked from Guillermo to Chapo. “It is soup. It is my favorite Mexican soup. People that really piss me off, I boil them alive. I sit and watch while they scream. I boil them until there is no meat left on their bones. And when I’m done, I return their bones to their mamas.”
The man’s eyes flashed with anger. He leaned close to Guillermo’s ear. “Do you want to be posole, pendejo?”
Guillermo was too terrified to speak.
“WELL,” El Posolero shouted. “DO YOU?”
“N . . . No . . . sir.”
“I didn’t think so. Now, tell me, which one of you is Higuera?”
“M . . . me . . . sir.”
“You? You scrawny little mouse? You’re Higuera?” El Posolero laughed. “I expected a giant. After all that I’ve heard, I expected an hombre with huevos.”
What had he heard? Who does he think I am?
“You have an hermano, sí? Ted Higuera?”
Guillermo felt like he had just been slapped.
“You betcha. Ted’s my brother. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
El Posolero snorted.
“If you have, then you know you’re in big trouble. He’s one tough hombre. He took out a whole cell of al-Qaeda terrorists up in Canada. He’ll be looking for me. You don’t want him on your bad side.”
El Posolero swiped Guillermo with the back of his hand, sending him sprawling on the cobblestones.
“He’s the one,” El Posolero said and pulled the big pistol from its holster.
He turned to Chapo and fired. The impact of the bullet lifted Chapo off of his feet and dumped him on the cobblestones next to Guillermo. Blood spewed from the hole in his chest.
Guillermo just stared. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
“He is of no use to me,” El Posolero said. “Get rid of him.”
“Chapo . . .” Guillermo whispered. He felt warm liquid running down his legs. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?
The short drug lord turned and walked off. One of the pistoleros pulled Guillermo to his feet and led him back to his cell.
“Not so tough now, huh?” the pistolero laughed.
Chapter 12
Seattle
Catrina and Jennifer sat in Catrina’s Explorer. Jeff had gone in alone.
A conversation with Lisa gave the women their best guess. Jimmy Adams was a fitness freak. He had a lifetime membership at 24-hour Fitness.
This was the third gym they’d visited. The key must be for a locker in the men’s dressing room. Jeff went in and checked. The first two times, at the gyms closest to Lisa’s home, had come up empty.
“Whatcha thinking?” Catrina asked.
“Probably cash,” Jennifer replied. As always she was impeccably dressed in a designer suit, this one was chocolate brown. “He probably had a horde of cash stashed away in case of emergency.”
“Why would he give her the key?”
“He’s a smart guy.” Jennifer pulled off her sunglasses and looked at Catrina. “He knows that if he gets arrested, he’s going to need her to post bail. He’s going to need cash to get out of the country. If he keeps it in his house, the police would find it. If he puts it in a safety deposit box, the DA would get a warrant for it. In any case, the cops would confiscate it.
“So he stashes it in an untraceable locker. He gives his wife the key so the cops can’t find it on him. He doesn’t trust her, so he doesn’t tell her what the key’s for. He figures that if the cops sweated her, she’d spill the beans.” Catrina reached for the Starbucks cup in her cup holder. “Not bad.”
Jeff, dressed in dark blue slacks and a white golf shirt, exited the building, putting on his sun glasses as the June sun light hit his eyes.
“Eureka.” He was carrying a dark green gym bag. He opened the back door, tossed the bag in and climbed in next to it. “He’s a smart cookie. He didn’t use the gym closest to his home because that’s the first place the police would look.”
“What did you find?” Catrina asked.
“Let’s take a look-see.” Jeff unzipped the bag. “Well, would you look at that? Cash… lots of it too. We expected that.” Jeff pulled bundles of fresh, crisp hundred dollar bills from the bag. “A Smith & Wesson .45 auto, with a couple of extra clips and a box of ammo.” As Jeff named each object, he set them on the seat next to him. “And hello, what do we have here? A couple of passports, no wait, make that three.”
Catrina and Jennifer turned in their seats to watch Jeff’s performance.
“Lookee here, each one has a driver’s license and credit cards inside. Each has his picture, but a different name. And all of them are for him, there’s nothing here for Lisa or Kayla.”
“Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,” Catrina said. “You’ve been a bad, bad boy.”
“Ditch kit,” Jenifer said. “And he wasn’t planning on taking his family with him. If he ever had to go on the lam, he was leaving them behind.”
****
Juarez, Mexico
The Hotel Benito Juarez was an older building in the center of town. Ted didn’t want one of the new, modern hotels or any of the American chains. “If we stay in a Mexican hotel, we might blend in with the locals better,” he told Chris.
At six-feet-two inches, with long blond hair, blue eyes and a pale Seattle “tan,” Chris had little chance of blending in with anyone.
The hotel took up almost a full city block. It’s high, pink stucco walls cut it off from the hustle and bustle of the crowded streets. Once through the huge oak doors, they entered an oasis of tranquility.
The front desk was just inside the door, under a covered roof. Two stories of rooms surrounded a huge patio with an open-air restaurant, a large pool and a pool side bar. Huge coconut palms soared above the patio with lots of lush green foliage at ground level.
Chris chose a table at the open air restaurant and ordered coffee. Ted was not a morning person. It might be some time before he showed up.
Chris opened his laptop and logged onto the Wi-Fi network at the hotel. He opened Internet Explorer and went to the Seattle Times page to check the morning news.
“You are Señor Hardwick, are you not?
Chris looked up to see a tall, thin Mexican man with a bad comb over standing by his table. With his beak of a nose, he reminded Chris of a vulture.
“Who wants to know?”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man extended his business card. “I am Rodolfo Trujillo, a reporter for the Associated Press.”
Chris looked at the card. “Chris Hardwick.”
“May I sit?” Trujillo pulled out a green wrought iron chair without waiting for a reply.
“I guess so . . .” Chris looked around for Ted. He wasn’t sure what was going on. “What can I do for you?”
“As I said, I’m a reporter. It’s my job to find news. I’m currently working on a series for the San Diego Union-Tribune about the drug violence in Mexico.”
Chris sipped his coffee. “Uh-huh.”
“I find it interesting that you and Mr. Higuera show up here in Juarez. What could you be after?”
Chris looked at the man for a moment. What did he want?
Trujillo signaled the waiter for coffee.
When Chris didn’t respond, Trujillo continued, “I know who you are. I remember you from the Star of the Northwest incident up in Canada. You saved a cruise ship full of passengers from being destroyed by an al-Qaeda cell.”
“Most people have forgotten about that by
now. “
“I’m a newsman. I read the papers. I also know Mr. Higuera was involved in the big Millennium Systems scandal in Seattle a few years ago.”
“Ancient history,” Chris said. “Ted’s back in L.A. now, running his father’s restaurant.”
“But still, two such illustrious adventurers, here in our quiet little town.”
The waiter arrived with a cup of coffee for the reporter.
“From what I’ve heard, your little town isn’t so quiet,” Chris said. He signaled for a refill. “I’m not picky about my coffee,” Chris continued, “but Ted is a real coffee snob. He’s not going to like this.”
Trujillo looked suspiciously at his cup. “Why? What’s wrong with our coffee?”
“Ted likes his coffee so strong that when you stir it, you can leave the spoon in it and it’ll stand up by itself. I know he’s going to complain about this brown water.”
“You and Mr. Higuera, you’ve been friends for a long time?”
“Since our freshman year of college. He was my dorm roomie.”
“I find it interesting that he went from the barrios of East L.A. to the University of Washington in Seattle.”
Chris picked up the menu and started perusing the breakfast items. He wasn’t too concerned with being polite to this interloper. “Football scholarship. Ted tore up the L.A. leagues in high school.”
“Oh yes, quite the athlete for such a small man.”
“Don’t let his size fool you. He’s strong as an ox.”
“Who’s strong as an ox?” A bleary eyed Ted appeared at the table.
“Morning, amigo,” Chris said. “This is Rodolfo . . . Tru . . .”
“Trujillo. Call me Rudi.” Trujillo stood and offered Ted his hand.
Ted shook it, sat down and growled. “Where’s the coffee?”
“You’re not going to like it, bud.” Chris gestured to the waiter. “Rudi here is a reporter. He’s asking about us.”
“Huh? A reporter?” Obviously Ted was not yet hitting on all cylinders. “Why does he want to know about us?”
“Two such renowned gentlemen,” Rudi said. “I am curious about why you are in Mexico.”
“Yeah?” Ted said. “I’ll tell you where you can put your curiosity . . .”
“Wait a minute.” Chris grabbed Ted’s wrist. “Maybe Mr. Trujillo here can help us.”
“Huh? How?”
“You have contacts here, right?” Chris turned to Rudi. “You know lots of people . . . on both sides of the law.”
Rudi laughed. “There are no ‘sides’ of the law in Juarez. There’s only the cartels and what they allow to exist.”
“What do you mean?” Ted asked.
“Before Coronel Lazaro took over the policía, they worked for the cartels.”
“Colonel?” Chris asked.
“Yes, he is on leave from the Army. That’s why he is incorruptible.”
The waiter showed up with Ted’s coffee.
“The cops worked for the cartels?” Ted was coming around.
“Those that weren’t on the cartel’s payroll, they were afraid to interfere. If an officer arrested a cartel member, he was killed. If they couldn’t get to him, they killed someone in his family. El Lobo sent a letter to El Diario, the local newspaper. He said that the police were to stay out of el centro, the center section of town. He said that any police caught near the mercado, the public market, would be killed. He said that Los Norteños would provide security in el centro.”
“I bet that went over like a lead balloon,” Chris said.
“No. They listened. No officer dared enter el centro. Los Norteños had stalls in the market where you could buy heroin, cocaine, meth.”
“Holly shit.” Ted stopped with his cup halfway to his lips. “They ran the police out of town?”
“Sí. Entonces, Presidente Calderon sent in the Army. The police chief, he was fired and Coronel Lazaro was put in charge.”
Conversation stopped as the waiter returned to the table to take their order. Chris ordered huevos rancheros and Ted, feeling adventurous, tried something new, huevos divorciados. Rudi declined Chris’s offer to eat with them.
“I will just have coffee. Gracias.”
“So there’s a new sheriff in town,” Ted renewed the conversation.
“Yes, he was the police chief in Tijuana. He cleaned up the town, as you would say in your old westerns.” Rudi signaled for a refill. “But at what price? There were numerous allegations of human rights violations. It is rumored that he tortured police officers suspected of working for the cartel. The level of violence in Tijuana dropped dramatically, but some would say that he created a monster. Now the police are all-powerful.”
“It’s a tough choice to make,” Chris said. “When do you give up your freedom for security?”
“You should ask what he gave up too.” Rudi said.
“What he gave up?” Ted questioned.
“Yes. We’ve had a police chief assassinated and a deputy mayor. We’ve also had two police chiefs resign under threat of violence. The Coronel, he is a very determined man. He hates the drug cartels. He has given up much. He sent his family out of the country to live in hiding under assumed names. He’s only seen them a few times in the last five years. He lives in the police station, surrounded by armed guards. He takes his meals at the police barracks. He eats off of the other officers’ plates. He’s afraid that someone will try to poison him. He never uses the same route twice and he never follows the same schedule two days in a row.”
“Wow!” Ted’s eyes widened.
“So back to my original question,” Rudi asked. “Why are you here?”
“Go to hell,” Ted retorted.
“Ted, just wait, hear him out. Maybe Rudi can help us. He seems to know people. He’s a reporter; he might be able to get us information. Plus he could publicize our case and get people to give us tips.”
Ted looked at the reporter. He lifted an eyebrow. “Well, Mr. Big Newsman, can you?”
“It would help if I knew what I was agreeing to.”
“My brother disappeared in Juarez. My father came looking for him and was murdered. I want my brother back and I want to find my father’s killers.” Ted stared at the reporter for a minute, then made up his mind.
“We need weapons. Can you hook us up with someone who can get us a gun?”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Rudi set his cup down and took a notebook out of his pocket. “Guns are very hard to come by in Mexico. You will end up in prison if the police catch you with one.”
“Ted, you’re out of your frickin’ mind.” Chris stared at his friend. “You hate guns!”
“We’re gonna need ‘em. These are bad dudes. We start asking questions, things could get hot.”
“People get killed asking these kinds of questions,” Rudi said. “However, this is in line with the story I’m writing for the Union-Tribune. Maybe we can share information. I might be able to help you.” He pulled a gold Cross pen from his pocket. “Let me get the facts first.”
Chapter 13
East Los Angeles
Catrina pulled into the parking lot of the El Chaparral Mexican Restaurant. She suspected that Ted would be working the dinner shift.
She and Jeff entered and were met by a beautiful young Mexican girl at the front desk.
“Bienvenidos,” the girl said. “Welcome to El Chaparral.”
She was short, no more than five one. Her luxurious black hair hung almost to her waist and she had deep brown eyes that smoldered.
Dressed in a low-cut peasant blouse that showed off her lovely young assets and a brightly-colored Mexican skirt, she was the picture of the perfect Mexican maiden.
“I’m looking for Ted Higuera,” Catrina said. “Is he here?”
A fleeting look flashed across the girl’s face. “No. He’s out of town. May I help you? I’m his sister.”
“You must be Hope,” Catrina extended her hand. “I’m Catrina Flaherty, an o
ld friend of Ted’s. This is Jonathon Jefferson, everybody calls him Jeff.”
Hope took Catrina’s hand. “Here, let me get you a table. I’ll get my mom, then we can sit and talk with you.”
She led Catrina and Jeff to a secluded table at the back of the patio. “May I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll take a tonic water, with a twist,” Catrina said.
“How are the Margaritas here?” Jeff asked.
“The best, my dad makes the . . . I mean . . . he used to make the best Margaritas this side of the border. Let me bring you one.” A tear formed in the girl’s eye as she hurried off towards the bar.
Catrina and Jeff looked at the colorful menus. Professionally taken photos of luscious Mexican dishes filled the menu with a detailed description of each one. Nicely done, Ted, Catrina thought.
She looked around. The patio was paved with red terracotta tile. In the center a Puebla tile-covered fountain trickled water into a burbling stream that ran the length of the patio. Two small, arched wrought iron bridges spanned the stream. There were lush tropical plants to separate the tables so that parties didn’t intrude on one another.
“Hey, isn’t that J-Lo,” Jeff asked.
“I don’t know. Looks like her,” Catrina answered.
“I hear this is a hot spot for celebrities these days,” Jeff said.
A busboy in black slacks and a puffy white shirt with a green silk sash brought a basket of chips and a carousel filled with different kinds of salsa, pickled red onions, marinated cucumber slices and pickled jalapeño chiles and two glasses of ice water.
Jeff scooped the green salsa on his chip and slid it in his mouth. “Damn, that’s good,” he said. “I forgot how hungry I was.”
“It was a long drive,” Cat said. “Is it hot?” she asked before loading her own chip.
Jeff grabbed his glass of ice water. “Yeah, go easy on it.”
“One Margarita, and one Tonic with a twist.” Hope was back with a highball glass with Catrina’s tonic water and a stemmed, blown Margarita glass with a blue rim. “Mama wants to talk to you. She’ll be right out.” Hope pulled out a chair and sat down.
The Mexican Connection: Ted Higuera Series Book 3 Page 10