The final stretch of the bridge took forever. Ciudad del Este inched closer: a forest of midsized buildings on the bluff overlooking the river. Walls and roofs were plastered with billboards and banners—pink, yellow, purple—announcing products and stores. Pescatore saw smugglers clustered on the riverbank with loads of cigarettes. And other items: He spotted a guy stuffing a plastic bag down the front of his sweatpants.
Ants, Abbas had called them; the action on the riverbank resembled an ant colony.
No one checked papers at the end of the bridge. In Ciudad del Este, the traffic churned up red dust. Crowds spilled into trash-lined gutters. Vendors’ tables and booths choked the sidewalks in front of stores. A vast tapestry of merchandise: flowers, diapers, watches, onions, cassettes, compact discs, leather jackets of every hue, nets bulging with soccer balls, stacks of stereo and computer components.
“Cuanta mierda venden,” Momo muttered.
Buffalo laughed in his throat. “You can buy anything, homes, long as it’s fake.”
Pescatore saw banks, currency exchanges, more armored cars, omnipresent security guards with shotguns. Itinerant money changers in orange vests clutched rolls of bills, worked calculators, leaned into car windows. Pescatore saw signs in Portuguese, Spanish, English, Asian languages, a warning about product piracy, a shingle that said “ALI BABA AND CO.” Women in Muslim veils passed a man arranging pornography on a rack. A contingent of shaven-headed Asian monks went by. They wore sandals and billowing brown robes; they seemed to float through the melee of buying and selling, loading and unloading, everyone jabbering into cell phones and radios.
The scene recalled Avenida Revolución in Tijuana, but much denser. And Pescatore didn’t see any restaurants, bars, nightclubs or hotels. Just hundreds and hundreds of stores. It was like TJ stripped down to its core. A demented bazaar.
Ten minutes later, it ended abruptly. A fast avenue took them out of crowds and dust and high-rises into parkland. Houses dotted a semicircle of hills around a lake.
They approached the walled, palm-shrouded entrance of a hotel: El Naútico Resort. A police van was parked in the driveway, surrounded by officers who resembled the soldier-boy thumpers on the bridge. They carried short machine guns on straps.
“Your security force,” Abbas told Buffalo. “We will also leave you Mozart and Tchaikovsky.”
The hotel was built onto a hillside and slanted down to a man-made lagoon in back. Abbas supervised the check-in with ostentatious commands. He shook hands and hurried off, promising that Khalid would be in touch soon.
The El Naútico Resort had flower beds, a discotheque, a multilevel pool, tennis courts, a playground. But nothing appeared to have been refurbished—furniture, wallpaper, carpets—since the 1970s. A smell of insecticide hung in the halls. The air-conditioning clanked and groaned deep in the bowels of the place. Long-faced bellhops in pillbox caps escorted the group, who had no luggage—except for a golf bag Abbas had provided for the weapons—to a floor two levels below the lobby.
Their rooms faced directly onto the lagoon. Despite high ceilings and dance-floor dimensions, the rooms were dank. Patches of humidity bubbled on the walls and fogged the mirrors and bay windows. Beyond the glass, a lone rowboat sat at the dock.
Junior stayed awake long enough to have a tantrum when the faucets in the presidential suite spurted rusty brown water. He spat something in Spanish that Pescatore translated to himself as “What a fucking dump.” Then Junior went back to sleep.
Buffalo handed out two-way radios to Momo, Sniper and Pescatore. He organized a schedule for sentry duty.
Before his shift, Pescatore napped in his room. Then he called room service and ordered macaroni with meat sauce, a jumbo salad, a strawberry milkshake with a little caramel in it, apple pie and a small pot of espresso. And then another shake. The meal made him feel better, though the pasta was overcooked and the espresso was watery.
Pescatore’s watch started at 4 a.m. He picked up his radio and resumed his masquerade as a henchman. He prowled like a phantom. He climbed stairs to a gym littered with dusty barbells. The black-and-white weight-lifting diagrams in a glass case on the wall had been clipped from an American muscle magazine from 1973. He padded through a ballroom with cracked mirrors and apparitional white sheets over tables. He wandered long dim halls to the lobby. A desk clerk watched him furtively, looking cadaverous in the greenish glow of the mahogany-framed reception area.
As he made his rounds, Pescatore came across hotel security men and uniformed policemen. He greeted them in Spanish. To the Brazilians stationed near the suites, he repeated the phrase that Moze and Tchai used: “Tudo bem?” Everything good?
He counted a dozen sentries, plus the police van at the entrance. It would be hard to get in or out unnoticed.
Pescatore made his way down to the dock. He stood listening to the thrum of insects and the burble of the lagoon.
Everything good? Oh yeah. He was marooned thousands of miles from the United States of America in a godforsaken hot-ass smugglers’ paradise. A forced recruit in a traveling gangster circus led by a crazy cokehead billionaire woman-killer.
Pescatore realized he was mumbling to himself. Glancing around in the dark, he sank into a deck chair. It was too risky to call Isabel Puente; the hotel phones were not secure. Pelón’s cell phone was useless here. What if he found a U.S. consulate? He imagined himself knocking on bulletproof glass, flashing his Patrol badge at a marine. By the way, I’m wanted for a cop-killing, but I’m innocent, really. This chick at the Justice Department I slept with one time, she can vouch for me. Her and her Mexican friend, who’d just as soon shoot me as look at me.
He needed a smart plan. He feared that word would eventually get back to Junior about his turncoat calls to Isabel. By now, he had no doubt that the Ruiz Caballero organization had snitches in law enforcement all over the hemisphere.
He dozed. He watched the sunrise over the lagoon. The air was already burdened by heat. At 10 a.m., he returned to his floor for the changing of the guard. As he reached Buffalo’s door, Junior’s voice froze him.
“Hey gabacho. You play ball?”
Junior stood barefoot and shirtless outside his room, hand on gut as usual. His torso was an epic battle between fat and muscle. His bushy hair looked electrified. His eyes were red and shiny. He licked and tightened his lips rhythmically. Pescatore suspected that he had just had a morning pick-me-up.
“Do you play ball?” Junior repeated, nasal and imperious.
“Ball?”
“Speak English, güey? Hoops. Basketball. You play?”
“Little bit.”
“There is a court here. I want to play. Get the muchachos.”
“I gotta tell you, it’s hot out there. Real toasty.”
“Y qué? Find somebody in this shithole to get us clothes.”
With Junior mouth-breathing over his shoulder, Pescatore rousted Momo and Sniper. Junior told them to let Buffalo sleep. Pescatore harassed various hotel employees until they came up with T-shirts, shorts and a red-white-and-blue basketball.
Half an hour later, the foursome trotted through a rippling haze onto the basketball court, where they smoked a joint. In the distance, a pair of elderly golfers shuffled off the links. Guests occupied one table on a second-floor terrace of the hotel. Otherwise, Junior’s boys appeared to have the El Naútico Resort to themselves. Momo wrapped their pistols in towels and placed the towels behind the base of the basketball pole.
“Two on two,” Junior ordered. His shorts and T-shirt were too big for him; they made him look even more like a powerfully built, foul-tempered child. “Me and Sniper against Momo and the gabacho.”
Pescatore stood at the top of the key facing Junior, who was the same height but a good thirty pounds heavier. Junior whipped the ball at him and grinned, squinting against the harsh pale sun.
“Check.”
As a kid, Pescatore had not been the most impressive player on the playgrounds of his neighborhood. Hi
s repertoire consisted mainly of a jump shot that was accurate on the rare occasions that he got the ball.
On the court at El Naútico, though, he was Michael Jordan in the land of the gumps. He wanted to laugh at the TJ mafiosos, the pinche Death Patrol. They were scrubs. Like sorry-ass girls. Look at droop-eyed Sniper, tall but hopelessly gawky with a shot that came from behind his ear to clang off the rim. And muscle-bound Momo: stiff, strictly horizontal. Pounding holes in the blacktop when he dribbled. Momo didn’t even try to shoot.
Junior was better. As in the boxing ring, he gave signs that he had once been quite an athlete. But he was desperately out of shape. He refused to accept his limitations. He played TV ball: fancy drives, behind-the-back passes. He crashed around like a runaway tank. Within minutes, his breath came in heaves and his moves in slow motion.
As for Pescatore, he was in great shape after two years of training, chasing and brawling in the nonstop nights of Imperial Beach station. He shot every time he got the ball. If he missed, he swooped in for rebounds and hit layups while the others flailed like men in quicksand. For the first time in a long time, he was having fun.
Junior offered grudging compliments at first. But his mood darkened as the score grew lopsided. He berated Sniper. “Help me out, pendejo, qué te pasa?”
Pescatore blew past them and banked in a reverse to win the first game. Junior declared a rematch. He lost the second game too. Before the third game, Junior mopped his puffy face with his T-shirt and caught Pescatore trying to restrain a grin.
“This time,” Junior grunted, showing the whites of his eyes, “I shut you down.”
Pescatore passed to Momo, who promptly passed back. Pescatore caught the ball going into his leap, released with a smooth follow-through and swished the jumper. On the next possession, he drove. Junior clouted him, staggering him; Junior still had his strength. Pescatore did not call a foul. He did not call fouls when Junior yanked his shirt, shoved and slapped him, banged him with elbows and hips. Pescatore kept scoring, and Junior kept hitting him. Finally, Junior swatted Pescatore’s hand so hard that he had to walk off the pain, wincing, pulling at jammed fingers.
Junior snapped: “Play ball, bitch.”
“You’re hacking all over the place.”
“Cállate, puto.”
Pescatore cupped the ball in his wrist and returned the glare. Sniper and Momo looked worried. By now they were just going through the motions. They caught Pescatore’s eye, signaling him to take it easy. A voice in his own head told him to back off, cool down. But his fingers burned. The pain had spoiled his buzz. His thoughts spiraled. Fuck it, he told himself. I don’t care how pissed he gets. I’m gonna make him look bad.
He scored baskets, fending off blows, slashing back as good as he got. It had become a street fight. He ached all over. They were dripping as much as if they had fallen into a pool. Junior tottered, ranting bilingually.
“Keep talkin’ that shit,” Pescatore grumbled.
Momo interrupted plaintively: “Oiga, Junior, maybe let’s take a break, eh? Nos tomamos una chela o algo.”
Junior paid no attention. His face, neck and arms had acquired a cherry-colored flush. He gave Pescatore a twisted smile. “You’re hot shit, eh, gabacho? Eh, chingón?”
“Game point,” Pescatore said, tossing him the ball. He wanted to finish it fast, escape this trap, this stupid duel on oven-baked blacktop. It occurred to him out of the haze that Junior was capable of having the homeboys cut his throat over a game of basketball.
Junior returned the ball and set himself. Knees bent, hands wide. He growled: “Think you’re something”—Pescatore faked, drove right, ball shielded by his hip—“but”—Junior scuttled crablike, arm windmilling—“I’m gonna”—Pescatore left the ground, propelling high, Junior barreling toward him—“smack your shit!”
It was a near shriek. Pescatore lowered a shoulder as they slammed together in midair. Junior’s fist caught him across the brow. He tumbled, rolled, ended up on his knees. He touched the blood on his forehead.
Junior had reopened the cut that Pescatore had suffered chasing Pulpo across the Line, long ago, in another life.
“Junior, estás bien? Qué pasó? Help him!”
Buffalo’s voice approached from the hotel. They gathered around Junior beneath the net. Pescatore realized that the second impact he had heard, an echo of the collision, had been Junior hurtling backwards into the pole. Junior flopped on his side like a landed fish, making strangled noises.
Buffalo cradled Junior’s head and roared orders. “Get some water. Do something, mamones!”
“No te enojes, Buff.” Sniper’s voice shook. “He just got the wind knocked out of him. Look, he’s opening his eyes. Ain’t he?”
Buffalo slung Junior over his shoulder, waving off help, and carried him to his suite. Pescatore trudged behind. He told himself that Buffalo was even stronger than he looked, because Junior hadn’t missed a meal in a long time.
Junior lay motionless. The hotel nurse arrived. Buffalo called Abbas, who sent a doctor.
The doctor had a pencil mustache and black-framed glasses that dwarfed his bald head. His diagnosis was exhaustion, dehydration and a near concussion. He took Buffalo aside and stammered about blood pressure, cardiac issues, drug abuse. He recommended repose and a number of tests.
Buffalo handed the doctor a wad of cash and told him to go away. He fired off phone calls to Tijuana and Mexico City. Junior’s eyes had opened only for a moment. Except for the fact that he was breathing, he looked dead.
“What did you fucking do?” Buffalo hissed at Pescatore between phone calls.
“Nothing.” Pescatore sprawled in an armchair with a towel pressed to his cut, more disgusted than afraid. “He wanted to play ball.”
“You played too fucking hard, ese!”
“Man, he was outta control. Look at my head.”
“Just chill and let him win, understand? Don’t you see the shape he’s in?
“The other day he was goin’ at it in the ring, looked good to me.”
“He’s hittin’ the coke twenty-four-seven, Valentín. And—” The phone rang. Long-distance from Tijuana. Buffalo told Pescatore: “You just fucking do what I say… Sí, Dr. Guardiola? Bueno? Me oye?”
Buffalo turned away with the phone. Pescatore dabbed at sweat and blood. He listened to the quaver in Buffalo’s voice.
Outside, the big man had seen Junior was down and gone into action with paternal reflexes, effortlessly in charge. But now, pacing by the bed, Buffalo looked lost.
18
IT’S ALL VERY IRONIC,” Méndez said. “Maybe it’s poetic justice.”
“What is?” Isabel Puente swept back her tresses with both hands. The plane tickets were fanned out on the table in front of her like playing cards.
“The last thing I ever wanted to do was work for the American government. Long ago I saw Barbara Walters interview Fidel Castro. She asked him a question. He avoided it. She insisted. Finally, Fidel said: ‘I won’t answer that. The CIA would love to know the answer. And I don’t want to work for the CIA. Ni pagado, ni gratis.’ That’s how I have always felt. Ni pagado, ni gratis.”
Puente left her hands up in her hair for a moment and said with mock indignation: “I know what you are doing, Leo. You are trying to goad me with that Castro stuff. Playing the mexicano zurdo resentido. Right?”
Méndez allowed himself a smile. The other Americans at the table watched blank-faced, probably perplexed—if they even understood that she had called him a resentful Mexican lefty. It was strange having this conversation with Isabel in front of an audience. He enjoyed watching her in action. Although her agency did not have the clout of the FBI and DEA, Isabel was running the Ruiz Caballero case. Her bosses on the task force knew she had the best rapport with Méndez.
“I can’t blame you,” Puente continued. “It’s an unorthodox situation. Let’s be clear: You are not working for the USG. We talked to the Secretary: As far as he is concerned, you
are still an employee of the Mexican government. Even though you said you resigned.”
“The Secretary may say what he wants. I have cut all ties to him and I do not wish to speak to him again.”
“But you are still technically on the public payroll unless they remove you. You are only on loan to us. We’ll provide the resources and the logistics, but you will lead the operation. With my assistance in an advisory capacity.”
She slid three of the four plane tickets across the table to him. Above her on the wall of the conference room was a bulletin board with photos of suspects, drug busts and confiscated vehicles. A federal agent with artistic talent apparently had sketched the in-house insignia: a puma, crossed pistols, a silhouette of the border fence under ornate letters: BAMCaT. The Border Area Multi-Agency Corruption Task Force was housed in a discreet office park in an industrial zone near Chula Vista.
Méndez sighed. “Fine. I have already made my commitment. But I would like to discuss the implications in private with my comandantes. I have dragged—”
Athos stirred on Méndez’s left. Méndez paused and Athos said: “It’s fine, Licenciado. I’m with you. After all, I’m a fugitive.”
Méndez had expected nothing less. But he knew Porthos had domestic entanglements: four children, a new house, a bakery owned by his in-laws in La Mesa. The bearded commander was examining his slablike palms.
“Porthos?” Méndez said. “You could take time to think…”
“No, Licenciado, please,” Porthos drawled softly, head low. “I spoke to my old lady already. She’ll be fine. Who could pass up a chance to see the world?”
That drew a smile from Balmaceda, the DEA representative, a rowdy cowboy who spoke Tejano Spanish. Like Isabel, he seemed to relish the uproar set off by the transborder abduction of Mauro Fernández Rochetti: the media assault, the arrests and indictments that had finally taken place on the U.S. side. The Americans had charged several border inspectors, a Border Patrol agent, an ICE agent and a recently retired DEA supervisor. They had also indicted Garrison, who was missing and presumed dead, and Mauro Fernández Rochetti. They had said nothing publicly about Pescatore.
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