“Alright, champ,” Buffalo said, his hand on the youth’s knee. “Everything good?”
César chewed gum and nodded. He fiddled with a short black necklace.
“Your placa.” Buffalo gave César a wallet-style case containing a police badge. “Clip it on your belt like the judiciales. By the buckle. Lemme see the pistol.”
César handed over a .38 revolver. Buffalo examined and returned it. César stuck the gun in a side pocket of the jacket.
His voice low, Buffalo told César it would be a walk in the park. Buffalo told him to do it just like they had rehearsed. Head shot if he could get close enough. If not, the body mass. Shoot until the target is down.
“And then you go out the way you came. Arturo Ventura and El Bebé will be waiting for you in the parking lot. Like we planned. Fast and calm. They get you out of there before anybody knows what the hell is going on.”
César nodded. He worked open his dry, cracked lips. He asked, apologetically, what would happen if he fucked it all up.
Buffalo gritted his teeth. “Don’t worry. That’s why we’re here. If we have to, we come in and finish the job. Fire up the whole place, put on a real show, this and that. But I know you’re not gonna need us. Right?”
César mentioned a bank account and his uncle who would take care of things if needed.
“Just in case, sir,” César said. “You know? Sir?”
“Sure,” Buffalo said. “But there’s nothing to worry about. You’re playing in the major leagues now, little brother. Pure professionals. Stick with the plan and everything will be fine.”
César accepted Buffalo’s vigorous street handshake, complying uncertainly when Buffalo bumped fists with him above and below. Pelón patted César’s shoulder again, this time with great solemnity.
Pescatore saw that the object on César’s necklace was a small crucifix made of black thread. Pescatore’s hand rose involuntarily to the similar crucifix at his own throat. Pescatore was sweating profusely, his mind racing. Something was about to go down. He couldn’t just sit and watch.
César crossed himself once, twice, three times—forehead, mouth, chest. He raised the crucifix to his lips.
Momo opened the door. Sunlight slanted in, made them grimace. Pescatore tensed forward, his feet poised, knees bent.
Chewing hard, his right hand jammed in his jacket pocket, César rose unsteadily.
Pescatore slid off the seat and followed César toward the door. He had no real plan other than to reach the street and figure out what was happening. To his dismay, he realized that no one else had budged. He had barely advanced a step when Momo grabbed him by one bicep and Sniper by the other. Momo yanked him back off balance, making him stumble sideways against the wall in the heavy vest. Momo’s furious, red-streaked eyes seared him at close range.
“Where you goin’, güey?”
“Aren’t we gettin’ out?” Pescatore stammered, as the homeboys jammed him roughly back into his seat.
César hesitated in the doorway, glancing wide-eyed over his shoulder.
“Sit the fuck down.” Momo spat the words at Pescatore through clenched teeth. “And stay the fuck down.”
Pescatore felt a spasm of rage and frustration. He had a vision of opening up with the assault rifle right then and there, going nuts, spraying everyone in the van.
Not much of a strategy, he told himself. That’s gonna get you nowhere. The energy drained out of him. He stayed down.
The distraction dealt with, Momo put a hand on César’s back and propelled him gently out of the van. Momo reached for the door handle. The door slid shut with a thump.
12
ON THURSDAY, Méndez took a morning off for the first time he could remember. He ran errands related to his trip. He wandered stores in search of a gift for his son. A book, a toy, a compact disc? He agonized over every option, afraid of making a bad choice and showing how out of touch he was with Juancito’s life. He abandoned the quest, empty-handed, for an appointment at federal police headquarters.
Afterward, Méndez, Athos and Porthos went across the street for coffee in a little glass-walled café that was on the ground floor of an academic think tank. The café provided a view of the headquarters of the federal police and prosecutors. The new attorney general’s delegate had just been assigned to Tijuana. His handling of the hunt for Pescatore had been so desultory that Méndez had decided he was either an idiot or on the mafia payroll.
“Every day they have another sighting of the gringo in Mexicali or Ensenada or Sonora,” Méndez said. “Next will be Chiapas. Is there any doubt in your mind that Pescatore is right here in Tijuana?”
“If he’s alive, he’s here, Licenciado,” Athos said. “That’s what our best informants say.”
“We don’t have the manpower to raid every safe house in the city on our own.”
“I almost prefer dealing with the state police, Licenciado. At least I know they work for Junior. With the federales you have different commanders connected to different narcos. You have chiefs transferred from the army who don’t know police work or Baja. Young officers out of the academy who don’t know anything. A mess.”
“Listen, did you send a car to Araceli’s press conference?”
“Of course.”
Méndez turned up his radio and contacted the officers reinforcing Araceli’s bodyguard at the city’s Cultural Center, where the press conference was to be held at 1 p.m. They reported that a group of protesters from the “pro-police” association had shown up and installed themselves next to the press corps, apparently intent on heckling Aguirre.
“It looks a little complicated over here, Licenciado,” the officer drawled over the radio. “Strange characters. Orejas, aspirinas, you know.”
Méndez was not surprised that the press conference had attracted spies and para-police operatives. But he had not calculated that the group associated with the fired police officers would show up. Harassing Aguirre on camera would not help their cause.
As Méndez listened to the radio, Athos touched his forearm and gestured at the federal police headquarters across the street. Two Suburbans drove up the ramp out of the basement garage. The Suburbans sat at the top of the driveway with their motors idling. The vehicles were full of federal officers in brimmed uniform caps.
“We are right around the corner,” Méndez said into the radio, looking at the Suburbans and quizzically at Athos. “Should we drop by?”
“That’s up to you, Licenciado… Might not be a bad idea,” the voice on the radio said.
The Suburbans departed at a good clip. They turned north in the direction of the Cultural Center. Méndez did not like Athos’s look as he watched them go.
“I guess we’ll head over there,” Méndez said to Athos, who was on his feet, slinging the strap of his assault rifle over his shoulder.
Méndez and Aguirre had agreed it would be best for him to keep his distance from the press conference. Already, the fact that Aguirre had a full-time bodyguard from the Diogenes Group had brought both of them flak.
Athos sensed Méndez’s reluctance. As the Crown Victoria covered the few blocks to the Cultural Center, he said: “If you prefer, Licenciado, stay in the car. We will take a look.”
Méndez sighed. He had been focused on the aftermath of the press conference, on anticipating the reactions. And on his trip to Northern California.
“No, I’ll go with you,” Méndez said. “We hang back unless they pull something. At this point, Athos, I’m not going to worry about appearances.”
“Very well—Abelardo, stop here!” Athos growled. “We’ll cut across the plaza on foot. Take the car around to the parking lot. Keep your eyes open.”
Athos rarely raised his voice. Méndez felt his stomach tighten.
Aguirre had convened the press conference on the concrete esplanade outside the Cultural Center, a massive construction in the center of downtown. Its most distinctive feature was a theater shaped like a giant golf ball. The Cultural
Center was a good TV backdrop, and its proximity to the border was convenient for American journalists who didn’t want to venture too far past the border.
Méndez and Athos walked briskly across the concrete expanse toward the multisectioned complex. They came up behind cameramen and reporters gathered in front of a row of glass doors at a side entrance. A podium and folding chairs for reporters had been set up outdoors. To the right of the journalists, near the shadow of the towering ball-shaped auditorium, were about twenty-five demonstrators. A few uniformed city police officers held them back.
Méndez caught up with Athos. They paused at the back of the press corps. Everyone’s attention was on the glass doors. Méndez put on his sunglasses, wanting to avoid eye contact. But sure enough, a veteran newspaperman materialized next to him and gave him a friendly, furtive elbow in the ribs. His name was Dionisio. He was short, wore a brimmed cap and leather coat no matter what the weather, and chewed incessantly on sunflower seeds. Méndez knew him as a solid, well-sourced reporter.
“What a pleasure to see you, Licenciado,” Dionisio said sotto voce. He popped a mouthful of seeds, staring straight ahead at the empty microphone. “Will you be participating in the event with Doctora Aguirre?”
“Absolutely not,” Méndez muttered, feeling unexpectedly guilty about stiff-arming a former colleague. “Give me a break, maestro. Let’s wait until afterwards, OK?”
Athos interrupted, his radio held to his ear. “Here comes Carrasco.”
Carrasco, the Diogenes officer assigned to guard Aguirre, emerged from one of the glass doors and propped it open. He wore a floppy button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails out over his holster. The protesters started chanting slogans and waving signs.
The glare of the sun on the glass made it difficult to see inside. Méndez spotted Araceli Aguirre approaching inside the lobby, framed in the doorway. She walked deliberately, straight-backed in a wine-colored dress with a silk scarf at her throat. She carried a sheaf of papers in her right hand. An assistant trailed her. The photographers and cameramen outside prepared for action.
“There she is,” shouted a protester.
A crescendo of whistles and chants: “Aguirre, traitor! Human rights for police!”
The protesters surged forward, driving back the municipal cops. Aguirre’s bodyguard grappled with a pudgy protester who held a picket sign.
Stupid assholes, Méndez thought in alarm, what do they think they are going to accomplish?
The first gunshot sounded like a door slamming.
The shot came from behind Aguirre. It came from inside the building. It hit her just before she reached the doorway. She stumbled forward and sideways against one of the glass doors. The papers jumped from her hand, fluttering in an arc of white.
Another shot: Aguirre banged hard into the door and collapsed, red streaking down the glass.
Méndez comprehended the full horror of what was happening now, reaching for his gun. The screams started.
More shots. Méndez heard himself scream too. He could feel the veins and tendons stand out in his neck.
Méndez saw the assassin: a diminutive silhouette in blue. The assassin crouched a few feet behind Aguirre in a straight-armed, wide-legged, two-handed stance, head low behind the pistol. A robotic, almost ridiculous stance. He fired down at her, the recoil making his stubby arms jump.
“They’re killing her!” a woman shrieked. “My God, they’re killing her!”
The lethal apparition was obscured by pandemonium. Protesters and reporters fled, dropped to the cement, fell over chairs and one another. But the photographers and TV crews obeyed their reflexes: They rushed toward the doorway of the lobby where Aguirre had fallen, cameras held high.
Méndez heard Athos bellowing, saw him slashing through the melee with the rifle butt. Méndez staggered in his wake, hyperaware of the pistol in his hand, pointing it down for fear that it would discharge into the crowd.
Scrambling around a cameraman entangled in a cable, Méndez lost his balance. He fell heavily and scraped open his left hand on the cement. He struggled to his feet in time to see Athos pursuing the assassin through the doors on the other side of the narrow lobby.
Aguirre lay crumpled on her stomach. She was motionless. Méndez wished at that moment that he had not seen so many corpses and crime scenes. He shouted her name, shouted for an ambulance, knowing it was futile. Then he heard more shots and screams from the direction where Athos had run. Araceli no longer needed him; Athos still did.
Méndez sprinted across the lobby through the doors and an interior patio. He careened through the Cultural Center’s bookstore, knocking over a book rack, and down an outdoor pedestrian ramp to the parking lot.
At the bottom of the ramp, Méndez came upon Athos holding two prisoners at gunpoint. Athos sighted down the barrel of his AK-47 at the men, who knelt with their hands above their heads. Their pistols lay on the pavement in front of them, where they had been dropped at Athos’s command. The two men had badges on their belts; they were obviously policemen unaccustomed to begging for their lives with a rifle pointed at their faces.
Athos roared: “Sons of bitches, don’t move! You’re dead, sons of bitches, fuck your mothers.”
“State police,” one of the officers implored. “He was armed. Commander Rojas, we are police!”
“Shut up, shut your fucking mouths, fucking criminals.” Athos coiled gracefully behind the weapon. He spotted Méndez and barked: “Licenciado, are you all right?”
Méndez did not answer. He took in the inevitable sight of the dead assassin: a dark blue heap on the sidewalk. Nausea jolted through him. Araceli and her killer both gone, the crime signed, sealed and delivered. A textbook, prime-time assassination. Méndez knew who the enemy was, how they operated. He had been there to stop them. They had slaughtered her in front of him.
“All of them,” Méndez snarled. “They’re all in on it.”
Porthos appeared, his belly heaving. He moved efficiently as he manacled the state police detectives with their own handcuffs. They complained loudly. Exhibiting strength and a vast wingspan, Porthos slammed the prisoners down on their faces. He looked at Méndez.
“Doctora Aguirre?” Porthos asked, flinching through his black beard.
Méndez shook his head.
Athos toed the assassin’s corpse thoughtfully.
“It’s that kid from the prison,” Athos said. “The Colonel’s chalán.”
Méndez turned back into the building. He brushed past men with cameras and men with guns. Guns and badges everywhere: federal, state and municipal police, uniform and plainclothes. They had arrived with impossible speed, how quickly the bastards had arrived to oversee the slaughter, Méndez thought. They’re all part of it, one way or another.
Araceli was still facedown. Her arms were beneath her, as if she were hugging herself against a chill. Her assistant and her bodyguard knelt beside the body, a ring of bystanders, journalists and police around them. The photographers and cameramen were at work, on automatic, hovering over the carnage. There were scuffles, curses, sobs.
The blood spread beneath Araceli, a crimson darker than her dress, which had ridden up one of her bony legs to midthigh. Méndez wanted to pull the hem of the dress back down, but he was frozen in place. The side of her face that he could see was unblemished, the long jawline, the short sculpted hair around the moon-shaped earring.
They were her favorite earrings, the sun and the moon. She had worn them the night a year ago when she and Méndez had dinner and Méndez confirmed the rumors: He had been named chief of a new special police unit. And he had recommended that the legislature appoint her human rights commissioner to replace him. She had laughed with delight and triumph. She told him they would be unstoppable. They would make Tijuana tremble. That night was the closest they had come in years to talking about their romance in university days. The closest he came to telling her that he still felt something for her that he felt for no one else, includ
ing his wife. But he hadn’t said it. He had never said it.
Carrasco, Aguirre’s bodyguard, approached Méndez. Carrasco had a cut over one eye, his shirt was torn and his knees were drenched in blood.
“Licenciado, I’m so sorry,” Carrasco blurted, his face wrenched and tearstained. “It’s my fault, I should have watched her back.”
Méndez wanted to comfort him, but he found it impossible to speak. The bodyguard seemed far away. Méndez was thankful for the refuge of his sunglasses. He was overwhelmed by the madhouse sounds racketing off the glass walls of the narrow lobby: crying, running feet, reporters yelling into phones, the click of cameras and the jabber of police radios. Porfirio Gibson’s nasal voice chattered somewhere behind him.
All the vultures, he told himself.
Méndez stuck his gun in his belt. He took off his sport jacket, remembering that the plane ticket to Oakland was still in the pocket. He knew now that he was not meant to use the ticket. He was meant to be alone.
Méndez crouched and spread the jacket carefully over Araceli Aguirre, shielding her, too late.
Part Three
REASONS OF STATE
13
PESCATORE HAD NEVER BEEN so high in his life.
It was the next afternoon. They staggered back into the house from the van. They flopped onto the couches, shedding their weapons and body armor. The television blared. Beer cans popped. Joints changed hands. Pelón and Sniper huddled over the mirror on the coffee table, chopping out lines of cocaine.
Pescatore had been drinking around the clock. But he wasn’t sleepy anymore. The pills that Sniper had handed out at the ranch near Tecate that morning had cranked him into tooth-gritting, lip-licking alertness. By then, the girl was gone. She left him inert on a bench. Said she was going to the bathroom and never came back; must have caught a ride home. Somebody told her something that freaked her out.
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