by Dan Dowhal
During a tour of the mansion, Shane is shown a massive dining hall containing a table that can seat twenty, but their dinner tonight is served on a patio, with the three of them sitting around a small table. The five-course meal is delicious. The quality and presentation of the dishes and matching wines remind Shane of the upscale restaurants Brandi insisted on frequenting. The impression is complete when a chef in white uniform and hat emerges during dessert to chat briefly with Don Aléjandro and receive their compliments.
Brandy, liqueur, and cigars are proffered, and the men push back their chairs to sip from their glasses and blow smoke up at the star-laden sky. During the meal, Don Aléjandro seemed more interested in recounting escapades from his and Sanchez’s naughty schoolboy past and discussing prospective match-ups for the next round of the NHL playoffs than picking Shane’s brain. Now he refills Shane’s glass and fixes him with a probing look.
“So, Shane, what are your plans for the future?”
“Assuming you manage to stay out of jail, that is,” Sanchez quips.
“Please, Francisco, that’s not fair. We both agree that Shane here is innocent of any wrongdoing and is being treated unfairly. God protect us from ambitious prosecutors.”
“Thanks, Don Aléjandro, but the doc’s got a point. It’s pretty hard to make plans when you’ve got something like that hanging over your head. But, honestly, I haven’t really given the future serious thought. I’ve been way too busy just trying to deal with stuff as it happens … which is pretty fast and furious, lately.”
“Do you think you might stay in hockey? In some other capacity, I mean.”
Shane shrugs. “Hockey’s all I know. Right now I’m a leper, and no one in the game will touch me, but I have thought before that I’d like to try my hand at coaching. Not in the bigs, mind you — that’s way too cutthroat for me. But maybe in the minor leagues.” He gives a self-effacing grin. “I’ve never told anyone that before. A lot of guys would probably say I don’t have the smarts to be a coach.”
“Never let others set limits for you. Look at me. I was just an impoverished boy from the poorest barrio in Puerto Palomas, but I made my fortune. Or take Francisco here, once a lazy troublemaker expelled several times, but now an esteemed physician.”
Sanchez laughs. “True, I managed to make it through med school. But esteemed? You exaggerate. Still, thank you for the compliment, Don Aléjandro.”
“My point, Francisco, is that our teachers had us both pegged for either jail or the poorhouse. But we showed them, didn’t we, compadre?”
“Yes, we did,” the doctor replies, and the two men clink their glasses.
Don Aléjandro leans toward Shane. “I was wondering, Shane, if perhaps you’d be interested in helping with our hockey team?”
“You mean, play for you?”
“Oh, no, as much as I would welcome your talents, La Liga wouldn’t allow it, at least not without you getting Mexican citizenship, which would take some time. But I could use someone with your experience and knowledge of the game as a special consultant.”
“Consultant?” The word does not fit into Shane’s conception of the hockey universe.
“A paid consultant, of course. Someone to advise the coach of game strategies, suggest practice drills, and perhaps evaluate the players.”
“You mean like an assistant coach, or something?”
Don Aléjandro waves his cigar in a small impatient circle. “The title isn’t important. The coach … well, let’s just say he’s an obligation of sorts, and a figurehead. You wouldn’t have to treat him as your superior. You would answer to me and Francisco.”
Shane blows out a ring of smoke from his own cigar. The idea has definite appeal, not the least of which being that the job would keep him close to Tammy and the ranch. Plus, what with the legal storm brewing in the north, Mexico seems like a great place to hide. The only thing keeping him from sticking out a hand to shake on the deal is a voice in his head reminding him that no contract should be undertaken without first talking to Morrie Getz.
“I’d love to work with you. A lot of guys I’ve played with were kind of cocky. They’d do what the coaches told them to because they’d be benched otherwise. But I don’t think they ever really listened. Me? I always figured I needed all the help I could get, so I paid attention.” He taps the side of his skull. “I’ve got all that information stored right here. Just let me run it past my agent, though.”
Don Aléjandro is grinning until Shane mentions his agent. A scowl cuts across the older man’s face, but stays there only a few seconds. The smile that returns seems a little slyer.
“I understand, but I wasn’t necessarily thinking of something so formal. You could come and watch my team a few times, tell me what you think, give me a few suggestions, and I’d pay you under the water. No, wait, that’s not right.” He turns to Sanchez. “Cómo se dice ‘bajo el agua’?”
“Under the table,” the doctor replies.
“Yes, yes. That’s it. I would pay you under the table. I’m a simple man with an aversion to paperwork. I’m used to doing business with just a handshake.”
“Well, I can’t see anything wrong with that —” Shane starts to say, but is interrupted by raucous voices from inside the house.
“Ah, my son, Enrique, has returned,” Don Aléjandro explains, rising from the table. “I’m sure he would enjoy meeting you.” He calls out into the next room. “Enrique, salga aquí en la terraza!”
The young man who walks out onto the patio is the very one who pulled a gun on Shane and stole his motorcycle on the highway. He is flanked by the two older men who rode in the back of the pickup that day — carbon copies of Don Aléjandro’s own tough-looking bodyguards, right down to the thick moustaches crowning their scowling lips.
Enrique doesn’t recognize Shane at first, but when his eyes take in the cast on the arm, something evidently clicks, judging from the sneer that appears on his face.
“That’s the son of a bitch that stole my motorcycle!” Shane yells, jumping to his feet and pointing. As he takes a step forward, guns suddenly appear in the hands of Enrique’s companions and point straight at Shane. They are nasty-looking automatic machine pistols, compact but clearly meant for serious firepower. When the companions pull back the bolts of their firearms, the sound causes Don Aléjandro’s bodyguards to come running onto the terrace, guns raised, although they appear unsure as to where to point their own weapons. Shane freezes, realizing the moment is perilously tense. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Doc Sanchez slide beneath the table, like a snake slipping under a rock.
“Alto!” Don Aléjandro suddenly barks. “Dejen sus pistolas ahora!” The raised voice is at odds with the soft-spoken, affable man Shane has seen so far. It has the confident tone of someone used to commanding men, with an underlying note of menace. The Don’s gunmen instantly obey, but Enrique’s bodyguards hesitate and look to their young boss for guidance. Enrique gives a tiny, barely perceptible nod — only then are the weapons put away.
“What’s all this about, Shane?” Don Aléjandro demands.
“Your son and those goons of his, they stole my motorcycle after I crashed. When I tried to stop them, they pulled a gun on me.”
“Yes, Francisco has mentioned that you were robbed, but you’re positive these are the men?”
“Damned sure. I recognized the bastards the second I saw them. They stuck my Ducati in the back of a tricked-out black pickup truck and just took off with it.”
Don Aléjandro turns and addresses his son in Spanish. Shane has no clue what they’re saying, but carefully observes the body language of the two men. The Don is initially patient, like he is addressing a child, but when Enrique replies, there is nothing defensive or repentant in his tone. If anything, his whole demeanour oozes arrogance. At one point he actually spits in Shane’s direction.
Don Aléjandro does not appear to like what he is hearing from his son. The patient fatherly patter is replaced by a rapid-fire seri
es of staccato words. Shane manages to parse stupido and idiota and so deduces that Enrique is being chastised. This is confirmed when the son’s face turns red with rage and he starts screaming at his father. Droplets of spittle fly into the Don’s face, but he says nothing, until finally some line is evidently crossed, and he delivers a hard slap across Enrique’s face.
For a second Shane is convinced the son will attack the father. Despite the age difference, he thinks the old man would be able to hold his own in an all-out brawl. But Enrique is clearly trying to get a hold of himself; his jaw is clenched tight, and his whole body is visibly trembling. The palpable tension unnerves the various bodyguards as well; both Enrique’s protectors and the Don’s slide their hands inside their jackets and shift uneasily from leg to leg, their eyes darting from man to man all the while.
When Enrique does finally move, it is not toward Don Aléjandro. He turns to Shane, and his lips pull back into a snarl. “I should have put a bullet through your brain when I had the chance,” he hisses, then turns on his heels and storms out of the room, his bodyguards hastening to follow him.
After all the shouting and tension, the room lapses into silence, except for the sound of the nocturnal animals calling outside. Don Aléjandro stands with his back to his guests. Shane can see from the slump in his shoulders that the man’s anger has been replaced with a great sorrow.
Doc Sanchez evidently picks up on it, too. Having emerged from under the table, he indicates to Shane with a jerk of the head that they should leave.
“It is getting late, Don Aléjandro,” Sanchez says, his voice full of sympathy, “and we have a long drive back. Thank you, as always, for your splendid hospitality.”
“Yeah, I had a great time, and the food was delicious. It was really nice meeting you,” Shane echoes.
The Don’s back straightens, and when he turns around, he wears a forced smile. “It was a great pleasure meeting you, too, Shane. I hope you will seriously consider my offer.”
“Um, yeah. I’ll do that.” What Shane really wants to talk about is his stolen motorcycle, but he senses it is not wise to force the issue, under the circumstances. When they shake hands, the firmness is gone from the older man’s grip. The Don and the doctor embrace and exchange some soft, private words, then one of the bodyguards leads Sanchez and Shane back though the house and outside to their vehicle.
Sanchez is uncharacteristically quiet as they start their drive back, so Shane kickstarts the conversation.
“That was a bit of excitement, eh? For a second, I thought World War Three was going to break out.”
“Don Aléjandro would never allow it, especially under his own roof.”
“Yeah, well, it looked to me like Enrique might have had ideas of his own. Is it just me, or is that kid a psycho?”
“He’s always been a difficult child. Now that he’s grown up and his father’s brought him into the business, they don’t see eye to eye on how to do things. His father is a gentleman and a diplomat, who plans things to the last detail. Enrique is … let’s just say he can be pigheaded and impetuous.”
“You mean like when he stuck a gun in my face and stole my Ducati?”
“That was stupid of him. Don Aléjandro was very angry. Enrique knows better than to make trouble on the American side.”
“Oh, so it would have been okay for him to do that to me in Mexico?”
Sanchez laughs. “Oh, amigo, in Mexíco, the cartels do what they please.”
It takes a few seconds for the information to sink in. “You’re saying those guys are mobsters?”
“Don Aléjandro is a businessman. Most of his enterprises are totally legitimate, but okay, some of his longstanding import-export operations aren’t exactly legal, though they are quite lucrative.”
“Holy shit! You took me to dinner with a drug lord?”
“Don’t be so fucking naive. You smoke and snort the stuff, don’t you? It’s got to come from someplace. You create the demand and then you condemn the guys who fill it? You’re like one of those people who love eating meat, but try to ignore that animals are killed and butchered in the process. Besides, the hockey team is totally above board, or I wouldn’t be associated with it. And the offer he’s making you is a generous one. Given your situation, Shane, you should jump on it.”
“I’m not going to go work for a drug lord! Don’t they, like, murder people left, right, and centre down here? Holy shit, some of the stuff I’ve heard on the news —”
Sanchez slams on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.
“Don Aléjandro isn’t like that! He hates violence. His territory goes back over thirty years to when the Godfather of all Mexíco, Félix Gallardo, originally carved up the country’s drug trade into smaller plazas. Don Aléjandro has managed to prosper without excessive bloodshed. What’s happening in the country now is madness. Fifty thousand killed in five years, a lot of them innocents! It’s like the gates of hell have opened up. No one hates the violence more than Don Aléjandro. He’s told me as much. He has two of the most violent cartels to either side of him, and he’s placated them by staying neutral. He’s relinquished control rather than fight with them and stoop to their level of evil. I’m proud to call him my friend.”
Behind them, a car lays on its horn before pulling around their stopped vehicle and accelerating past them. Doc Sanchez presses down on the gas pedal, and they resume driving.
“Shit, and you call me naive?” Shane finally responds.
“I don’t involve myself in the illegal side of his affairs, even more so now that Enrique has taken charge. I’m afraid the son is not as benign or wise as his father, and certainly he is far greedier. He not only endorses the tactics used by the other cartels, I think he relishes them.”
Shane has been searching his memory for any news items he has absorbed from hotel television sets about the Mexican drug war.
“I seem to recall hearing about mass graves full of corpses with body parts cut off. That’s pretty nasty shit.”
Sanchez clucks his tongue. “It just gets worse and worse. All the big cartels have got armed squads of enforcers now, and they’re totally ruthless. Down south, for example, they have Los Zetas, all former commandos or members of the elite Special Forces who deserted and worked for hire as a private army, then went into business for themselves as their own cartel. They’ve upped the ante for violence, so now other gangs are bringing in ex-military from Central America. They’re all monsters with no conscience. Cutting off the heads and hands, that’s to make identification harder, and to intimidate the hell out of the public.
“It’s bad enough when they’re killing one another, but a lot of innocent people suffer in the process, too. Next door, in Juárez, for instance, is La Línea — most of them are ex-cops. One day a bunch of them show up at a birthday party full of teenagers and shoot it up with AK-47s. Sixteen kids killed, another dozen injured, all because they thought one of the kids had squealed on them to the cops. They’re devils.”
He turns to look at Shane. “You heard what happened to the cops in Columbus, right?”
Shane shakes his head.
“The FBI came in and busted the mayor, the city manager, the chief of police, and most of his men. Got them for running guns to Mexíco. The whole Columbus police department’s been disbanded.”
“And you’re still saying Don Aléjandro isn’t getting his hands dirty?”
“That wasn’t his doing, and he chose not to interfere. Enrique disagreed — wanted to grab the guns for himself, or at least charge a tax — but he was overruled. I shudder to think what would happen if Don Aléjandro were no longer here to keep a tight rein on things.”
They drive in silence for a while, each man wrapped in his own thoughts. Then Sanchez speaks again. “I have a confession to make, Shane.”
“What’s that?”
“Your stolen bag … it wasn’t really found by a patient of mine. When you described the motorcycle
that Mormon kid was driving, I knew right away it was Enrique’s. I saw it parked at the arena, and I went and peeked in the sidecar … first I saw your dental plate lying there, then later I found your bag down on the floor.”
“And you didn’t figure that it was Enrique and his men who stole my Ducati? What the fuck, Doc?”
“I … I didn’t want to get involved. It was on the American side. Don Aléjandro has ordered Enrique not to cross the border, where he can’t guarantee protection from the authorities the way he can in Mexíco.”
“And Enrique went anyway, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
Shane turns to stare out his window into the darkness. “I wonder what happened to the poor Mormon kid,” he asks the night.
FIFTEEN
Shane awakens to the sound of animated voices outside. Curiosity and the need to urinate override the desire to cover his head with a pillow and cling to sleep. Shane staggers to his feet, dresses, and stumbles outside for a pee, muttering curses at the serpents as he passes. Rounding the side of the stable, he is surprised to see the entire household assembled in the driveway and heads over to find out what has them so energized.
His stolen Ducati stands in their midst as they speculate about its presence. Vern is sitting sidesaddle on the leather seat, but he slides off when Shane approaches. Yolanda, however, continues to squeeze and manipulate the controls on the handlebars. Shane wonders if she really is that interested in how the machine operates or is only trying to annoy him.
Tammy looks up at him. “This here the bike they stole from you?”
Shane nods. He doesn’t see the value in disclosing his newfound revelations about the identity of the thieves.
“Coulda sworn I heard you drive in with Doc Sanchez around eleven,” Tammy continues.