Triple Crossing

by Sebastian Rotella

  “Go ahead.”

  “A delicate, complicated situation, Licenciado. The best way I can express myself is as follows: I would be very grateful if we could work out some kind of arrangement by which you could release Officer De Rosa and the Chinese gentleman, Mr., eh, Chen.”

  “An arrangement.”

  “Exactly.” The lawyer gathered momentum, the words devoid of genuine expression, as if he were reading from a script. “Let me phrase it like this, if you permit me: Certain parties would be interested, if we could secure the release of these two gentlemen, in making a generous contribution to the Special Unit which you command.”

  “A contribution.” Now Méndez looked at Fernández Rochetti, who was savoring his cigar. Sons of bitches, Méndez thought. They’re just doing it to see my reaction.

  “Yes sir, maybe ‘donation’ would be the best word. The Diogenes Group is doing such admirable work. What a difficult battle it is, you have my deepest respect in that regard. I read a newspaper story explaining how you have to make do with old cars and radios, secondhand bulletproof vests from the San Diego Police. A real shame. So we were thinking along the lines of a donation: say three new cars and some vests, radios and other equipment. In exchange for the liberty of Mr. Chen and Detective De Rosa. If that sounds agreeable. After all, we know your real concern is drug smuggling, not a few extra migrants.”

  Méndez lowered the phone for a moment, the disembodied voice droning in his hand. He contemplated throwing the phone at Fernández Rochetti or the prosecutor. Athos sat forward with his forearms on his thighs. Méndez collected himself. Athos had told him that it was best to respond to the mafia in kind. If they are indirect and flowery, you be indirect and flowery. If they curse and threaten, you curse and threaten. Energy for energy.

  “Licenciado Castrejón,” Méndez said into the phone. “I appreciate the offer, of course. Of course we could always use new equipment at the Diogenes Group. Lamentably, I can’t accept it in this context. And let me say, in anticipation of another offer, that I like money. Who doesn’t? I probably like money almost as much as Deputy Attorney General Losada and Commander Fernández Rochetti. But I can’t help you. The suspects you mentioned are in jail. And there they will stay.”

  “Well, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Castrejón said. “I thought you were a reasonable, sensible person who could…”

  Méndez reached over and, with exaggerated care, placed the phone on Losada’s desk. The prosecutor picked it up, said a few words and hung up. Méndez rose, trying to look serene.

  “It’s been a pleasure as always,” he said. “Thank you for your time. With your permission.”

  Losada made an apologetic noise. Mauro Fernández Rochetti cut him off.

  “I am concerned about you, Licenciado,” Fernández Rochetti said. Moving languidly, he reached out and tapped the cigar on an ashtray on the desk. His blazer cuff rode up to reveal a gold bracelet, gold cuff link, and powder-blue shirtsleeve on a thin wrist. “Enthusiasm and inexperience are a bad combination. They lead to mistakes like the one you have made in this case today. As far as my agency is concerned, De Rosa has been unlawfully abducted.”

  Fernández Rochetti had a habit of showing his tongue when he smiled, an unsavory touch in an appearance that aspired to be distinguished. He was in his late fifties, silver-haired. He looked like an aging actor from the black-and-white days of Mexican cinema: dark eyebrows, strong profile, soft mouth.

  Méndez turned toward Fernández Rochetti. “And?”

  “And I have to tell you: My muchachos were naturally upset and concerned about their colleague. It took all my efforts to persuade them not to go to your headquarters and rescue him. Imagine how unpleasant that would have been. You can play any game you want, Licenciado. But every game has rules.”

  Athos stepped close to the homicide commander. Fernández Rochetti reclined, legs crossed. But his eyes flickered up at the man in black and gave him away: Mauro Fernández Rochetti was as frightened of Athos as anyone else in Tijuana.

  “Tell your muchachos,” Athos said softly, “that any time they feel the urge to pay us a visit, I will be waiting for them. And you know I don’t play games.”

  Athos turned away. Méndez followed his lead.

  “Thank you very much, gentlemen,” Losada said to their backs.

  Athos and Méndez walked rapidly down the echoing, puddled hallway. After they emerged into the sunlight, into the lunchtime crowd emptying from the courthouse, Athos spat into the gutter.

  “Quite a day, eh?” Athos said, shaking his head. “That Losada is an instrument of the mafia. An instrument of the mafia.”

  “And that bastard Mauro is the one that plays him.”

  “What do you think, Licenciado?”

  “They did all that just to provoke me. Things are getting ugly, brother.”

  Their driver pulled up in the Crown Victoria. As Méndez got in, he saw Athos scan the sidewalk, the police and civilian vehicles, the windows of the justice complex: reconnaissance in enemy territory.

  At about 5 p.m., Méndez lay down in the sleeping quarters next to his office, where he often spent the night since his family’s departure. He slept and dreamt that a phone was ringing, but he could not find it.

  An hour later, his secretary woke him to say Isabel Puente had arrived from San Diego. Méndez patted his hair, frowning in the bathroom mirror at the gray tinges, and smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes. Feeling vaguely juvenile, he slid quickly behind his desk and popped in a compact disc: a trio singing a bolero. “Sabor a Mí.”

  As was her custom, Isabel Puente made an entrance.

  “Leo, how are you? I brought you a gift.”

  “La cubanamericana has arrived! A gift?”

  “For intellectual self-improvement.”

  She advanced with lithe, sure-footed strides, grinning playfully. She had her hair pulled back today like a flamenco dancer, bringing out the feline bone structure, the wide-set eyes. She was diminutive, athletically well proportioned, wearing a snug gold turtleneck and matching corduroy pants. The belt holster peeking out of her down vest was empty; U.S. agents were forbidden to carry firearms on Mexican soil. But Méndez suspected that she was packing her second gun, a short-barreled automatic, in one of her knee-high suede boots or the bag over her shoulder.

  As always, he found the greeting awkward. With his male counterparts from U.S. law enforcement, who like Puente were mostly Latinos with cross-border liaison duties, Méndez generally exchanged the standard ritualistic abrazo complete with two-handed back slap. That didn’t seem appropriate with Puente. They shook hands over the desk. She leaned forward for a hesitant peck on the cheek, her demure look softening her self-assuredness.

  But she recovered quickly, pulling a book from her bag and brandishing it at him.

  “Here,” she said. “This is for you. This is about you.”

  The book was entitled Manual of the Perfect Latin American Idiot.

  “Ay, how thoughtful,” he laughed. “The bible of the neoliberal right, no? They decided the calamities of Latin America are the fault of the left. What a surprise.”

  “It’s a classic,” Puente said. Her accent in Spanish retained the sugar-mouthed and staccato rhythms of Cuban South Florida. But she was agile enough to mimic the expressions and drawl of the border. “You’ve got an image problem with my bosses at the task force. They think you’re a Communist anti-American. But an honest Communist anti-American, if there is such a thing.”

  “Their worst nightmare, eh? What I want to know is, why do you hang out with me, then?”

  Puente plopped into a chair. “Obviously, I must have a weakness for Marxist mamones.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Leo,” Puente said, a boot heel starting a soft hammer on the floor. “Have you told your obnoxious leftist friends in the Tijuana press about this incident with the Border Patrol agent yet?”

  As sharp as she was, Méndez thought, her Cubanness and Americanness impe
ded her from absorbing the cultural lesson that it was not polite form in Mexico to get right down to business. A few more ritualistic pleasantries were in order. One day he would explain gently that, around here, it was better to circle in on your conversational target than to charge at it.

  “Not yet, Isabel,” he said, making a defensive gesture. “I was waiting to talk to you.”

  “Good. I hate to disappoint you, but it might work out better if we keep it quiet.”

  “That goes against all my patriotic instincts. Who is this character?”

  “We are pretty sure it was Agent Valentine Pescatore,” she said. “Ever hear anything about him? He’s on the fringe of Garrison’s group.”

  “I would remember a name like that. Another criminal?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Isabel Puente gave an uncharacteristic sigh. “We did a preliminary interview today. He’s a street kid, kind of wild, from what I can tell. But not necessarily a thug. I hope if we handle him right, it might be a real opportunity. What did you get?”

  Méndez picked up the phone. His secretary tracked down Athos, who had spent the afternoon canvassing the area in the Zona Norte where the U.S. agent had crossed The Line. Athos was eating at Tacos El Gordo.

  Méndez pulled his pistol from a drawer and stuck it in his belt. “Let’s go meet them. My treat, of course.”

  Puente wrinkled her nose. She was squeamish about street food. “I’ll say this, Leo, you’ve got an honest operation here. No fancy meals for the Diogenes Group.”

  “In reality, I’m concerned how it would look to your government. The way things are in your country, inviting a lovely young agent to a nice restaurant could get me accused of sexual harassment, no?”

  She appeared to wince; he wondered if he had gone too far. But she grinned and responded: “Saying what you just said could get you accused of sexual harassment.”

  Tacos El Gordo was on Avenida Constitución in the nightlife district. A revolving police-style light on the sidewalk stand threw whirls of red across the scene. Neon glowed, music pounded in the curtained doorways of nightclubs. Encircling the taco stand were families with kids bundled against the evening chill, cholos in hooded sweatshirts, uniformed cops. All devouring food or watching the taco man work his magic, his dark artful hands chopping and slicing with controlled violence. Méndez spotted Athos and two officers spreading their feast on the hood of a car.

  “Come on,” Méndez said, sweeping open the car door for Puente. “Let’s go hear about the adventures of your Agent Valentine.”

  3

  VALENTINE PESCATORE SAT in the sun with his back to the wall, drowning his sorrows in a Woptown feast.

  He occupied a table on the sidewalk outside his favorite joint on India Street. He had eaten an Italian beef sandwich with hot peppers, a slice of Sicilian pizza and a cannolo, accompanied by three beers. Now he was having his second espresso to counteract the effect of the beers. He needed to stay sharp.

  Little Italy was his private refuge in San Diego, fifteen miles from the border and a world away from The Patrol. Compared with his Taylor Street neighborhood in Chicago, it was tiny. The surviving Italians clung to a few blocks of India Street and a church around the corner. Little Italy was a skeleton, a movie-set streetfront. But he liked the Sicilian bakery, the barber- and butcher shops, the mix of old-school eateries and sleek new establishments for the lunch crowd from the downtown office towers. He liked the fact that the owners were Italian but most of the workers behind the counters were Mexican. Despite his Italian last name, he spoke only the language of the workers. He liked the graffiti of the local Mexican-American gang. They called themselves Woptown. They sprayed the name on the white walls and cement stoops of three-story walk-ups that reminded him of home.

  One afternoon he had passed a faded storefront on India Street. Glancing through the open door, he had spotted half a dozen old-time ginzos in folding chairs playing cards at a table in a carpeted, otherwise empty room. A handwritten sign taped in the window read S.D. ITALIANAMERICAN CLUB. The scene recalled the social club where his uncles hung out in Chicago.

  The next time he went by the place, the shutters were down. The sign was gone. He never saw any of the old-timers again. He began to think that it had been an urban mirage. Or a dream.

  He wished the past two days had been a dream. But the bandages on his forehead and his left hand were real. He entertained notions of getting in his car and hitting the interstate. He wondered how long his ten-year-old Impala, formerly property of the Chicago Police Department and complete with spotlight and monster engine, would hold up. Probably not long. The FBI and Office of Inspector General would track him down at some desert gas station and pile on additional charges for running away.

  The only bright spot was that he had attained renegade-hero status at Imperial Beach station. Until the Tuesday-night incident, he had been considered a loner who talked funny—in English and Spanish—and hung out with Garrison’s outlaw clique, causing most agents to keep their distance. That changed dramatically after the Pulpo incident. No one said anything out in the open. But he got furtive handshakes and exultant comments from agents such as Galván, who was always trying to set up fellow PAs with a visiting female cousin from Guadalajara.

  “Chased that pollero halfway across TJ into his house, kicked his ass, and made it back again!” Galván had whispered within earshot when Pescatore had arrived painfully early Wednesday morning, as ordered, his head and hand still bandaged. “What kind of pantalones does that take?”

  Sipping hot espresso, Pescatore smiled weakly. Whatever the outcome of his troubles, it was hard to imagine going back to work. He felt as if he had broken through a wall. He had worried for weeks that Garrison was pulling him into something demented and dangerous. It had been inevitable.

  After Pescatore had made it back across The Line on Tuesday night, Garrison was the first to reach him. Lying in a vehicle waiting for an ambulance, Pescatore told him about his pursuit of Pulpo.

  “OK, fine,” the supervisor hissed. “You’re bleeding all over the place, so play it up big. We’ll have ’em take you to the hospital. Don’t you admit anything about anything, Valentine, you hear me, buddy?”

  Pescatore was X-rayed, cleaned up and sent home to take a few days off. But early Wednesday, a supervisor called and told him to come in to the station ASAP. Garrison called minutes later to tell him they all had to tell the same story and write the same reports and not mention the Game or anything else, goddammit.

  The Patrol Agent in Charge and his deputies received Pescatore with stern looks. He denied everything and exaggerated his grogginess. Luckily, the cameras in the area where the incident had happened were either defective or had been shot up by smugglers. He got the impression that the brass had no hard evidence to back their suspicions that he had crossed into Mexico, just scuttlebutt. They told him to write a memo and report directly to the Federal Building to be interviewed by Special Agents Roy Shepard and Isabel Puente of the Inspector General’s office.

  “Isabel Puente? Oh man you are just totally fried,” Galván hooted when they crossed paths later at the Coke machine. “She’s a menace. She’s on a crusade. Some little malandrín says a PA slapped him upside the head, she goes after it like the Kennedy assassination.”

  “Don’t spook him, you stupid asshole,” Garrison said. He pulled Pescatore aside. “Don’t worry about a thing, buddy.”

  Pescatore glanced around the small station lounge. He whispered: “Nobody saw it, right? I don’t need a union rep, do I? Or a lawyer?”

  Pescatore didn’t trust lawyers. And he knew the agents’ union representatives didn’t like or trust Garrison or anyone associated with him.

  “Nah. The bosses rode out this morning with this OIG guy, Shepard. They found some old borracho tonk by the fence claims he saw you in the middle of Calle Internacional. But he’s a wino. They just hope you’ll get scared and start babbling.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

>   At the Federal Building, Pescatore decided gloomily that he should have put on his uniform. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt under a green bomber jacket. It occurred to him, with his bandaged hand and head, he looked more like a suspect than an agent. A stern receptionist in the Office of Inspector General, the internal affairs arm of the Department of Homeland Security, showed him into a conference room and told him to wait.

  A good half hour later, they came in. Shepard was in his forties, sleepy-eyed, a bit overweight, with blond hair thin on top but longer than usual. He seemed constricted in the beige suit too—more like DEA or an undercover man than OIG. He started talking, but Pescatore was distracted by Isabel Puente.

  Especially in the face, she reminded him of the spectacular, unattainable Puerto Rican girls he had yearned after as a teenager, the ones who lounged in halter-topped glory in front of Roberto Clemente High School when he rode the bus through the Division Street neighborhood. The face of a panther. Skin the color of cinnamon; he imagined he caught a scent of cinnamon across the table. She wore a tight gold-colored outfit: a turtleneck, corduroys, high suede boots. She half turned, knees together, to slide into the chair. He took in taut curves and an achingly small waist with a holstered gun on the belt. Damn, he said to himself. My executioner is fine. But she doesn’t look happy to see me.

  “Agent Puente is a supervisor in our office currently detailed to BAMCaT, the Border Area Multi-Agency Corruption Task Force,” Shepard announced.

  A supervisor? Corruption task force? That woke Pescatore up in a hurry.

  Isabel Puente watched, her chin propped on her hand, her fingertips playing along a smooth cheekbone, as Shepard said: “We’ve got your memorandum, but you just tell us your account again.”

  Pescatore ran his injured hand through his short thick curls near the bandages. He said he had come down right away to get things cleared up, even though he wasn’t feeling too hot. He repeated the version he and Garrison had concocted: It edited out the Game, the escape of the aliens from the Wrangler, and the chase into Tijuana. He said he had surprised a smuggler trying to spring an alien from a vehicle near the Gravel Pit and pursued him down a ravine to the fence. They struggled. The smuggler struck him on the head and escaped.