Arson Loskush isn’t his real name. Loskush is slang, a form of “Fuck you” in border Spanish. His self-selected first name is English, and it means what you think it does. He’s twenty-seven years old. He fathered his first child when he was seventeen. He lives with his mother, who dotes on him, and he works intermittently at his stepfather’s factory in El Paso. He’s a big Indios fan. Really big. The team occupies the very center of Arson’s life. Yet he didn’t ride the bus with us to the season opener in Monterrey. He hasn’t attended any Indios home games since the season started in January. I’ve only met him once in person, and then only briefly. His absence is excused by the rest of El Kartel. They know the guy’s been through a lot.
THE INDIOS RESUME practice at the Yvasa complex. Head coach Pepe Treviño finds himself on a death watch; he may be fired at any moment. Mexican authorities arrest a drug lord nicknamed “La Barbie.” They make a big show of it, parading him before television cameras in his Ralph Lauren polo shirt. La Barbie is a young guy, light-skinned, an American born in Laredo who rose to the top of Mexico’s Beltrán-Leyva Cartel. He doesn’t look too upset about his arrest, at least not on television. He smiles throughout his perp walk, as if he’s in on some joke. In interviews, he claims to know who shot Club América’s star striker six days before the game against the Indios. When asked, he helpfully breaks down the current cartel alliances. The Zetas, a collective of rogue soldiers who work the Gulf of Mexico, are “unspeakably sadistic.” The trouble between the Sinaloa Cartel and the cartel in Juárez started, La Barbie claims, when an agreement allowing the Sinaloans to work the border was broken by a man named Juan Pablo Ledesma. I know about this guy, Ledesma. He’s one of La Línea’s top men. People in Juárez call him J. L., pronounced, in Spanish, “ho-ta el-lay.” He’s also known as Dos Letres. Another of his nicknames: the Beast.
Away from the border, La Línea is usually described as the Juárez Cartel’s enforcement arm. That is indeed how La Línea started out: as disgruntled policemen recruited to help the cartel crush its enemies. Yet that’s no longer how things stand. Now people in Juárez refer to the cartel itself as La Línea, because the enforcement arm has overtaken the operation. When cartel kingpin Amando Carrillo died during plastic surgery in 1997, control fell to his brother, Vicente, a guy so hands-off, or maybe simply so ineffectual, there is speculation he might have retired. La Línea stepped into the leadership void. The names Pedro Sánchez and Chalo González are bandied about in print, but I don’t know who these guys are. J. L. is the name I recognize. He’s usually described as La Línea’s number two, I guess after Vicente. He’s a strategist, the leader ordering assassinations and drafting the narcomanta warnings dropped around town to scare the visiting Sinaloans. When he kills someone himself, he always fires one .38-caliber bullet in the head, his signature move. The New York Times calls J. L. La Línea’s “point man in Juárez,” “the local crime boss,” and a man trying “to establish himself as a gangster in the U.S. tradition, controlling extortion rackets, prostitution, gambling as well as cocaine traffic.” J. L. is omnipresent in the city, even if I haven’t yet knowingly seen him.
“He’s this big guy, super fat. Super fucking fat,” says Saul Luna, one of my better friends in El Kartel. Saul is twenty-five. He played soccer at a small college in New Mexico but dropped out to be closer to his mother, who has breast cancer. He’s asked me to wear a pink wristband in her honor, which I’ve paired with a red-and-black nylon bracelet from El Kartel. Saul has reenrolled in college at New Mexico State, in nearby Las Cruces, where he’s majoring in bilingual education. He works nights at a Lowe’s. He’s growing out his hair so he can donate it to Locks of Love. Saul knows what J. L. looks like because there was a time when the local crime boss partied with El Kartel.
“Arson’s brother Charlie is the one who brought him in,” Saul tells me. “When we first won the championship over there in León, we came back and started throwing these parties at a bar owned by a friend of ours. Every Friday El Kartel would have our meetings there. Someone would speak for like thirty minutes on what we’re going to do for the next season, blah blah blah, and after the meetings we’d just party. This one night we were all there when Charlie shows up. He had a friend with him, Charlie did. I’m like, ‘Man, this guy is, like, fat. Like daredevil-fat-guy fat.’ And he’s sweating. And he’s dressed as a cowboy. He’s got the boots, got the belt. He’s bald. And he’s sweating like a motherfucker. I saw him and my first impression was ‘Wow, this guy’s really fat,’ you know? I didn’t think anything else.
“ ‘You guys want a beer?’ he asked. Sure, dude. Get us a beer. We drank, like, half our beers with him, then he and Charlie kind of went away. Later on that night, driving back to El Paso, Arson asked, ‘What do you think of that guy?’ I said, ‘Whatever. I didn’t even catch his name.’ Arson tells me.
“ ‘J. L.?! Are you fucking serious? We could have been targets!’ ”
I often hang with Saul when I cross into El Paso, which I’ve started to do now that I’ve got my car. We’ll lunch at Chico’s Tacos or we’ll go to his sister’s apartment to play FIFA on an Xbox. I’ll be Barcelona, the best team in the world. Saul will play as Indios, the worst team in the international soccer hinterland of Mexico. He’ll always win. One time when he defeated me, the computer skipped over Lionel Messi to name Marco Vidal the player of the match, which was surreal. I’d heard that Charlie, Arson’s brother, ran with La Línea. And that he was murdered last September. I ask Saul to tell me the story.
“It was Arson who was into the Indios first. We all went to El Paso High—the Lady on the Hill—and we used to party in Juárez all the time. Charlie started showing up just because he wanted to hang out with Arson. Charlie had been living in Juárez for like two years, because he’d been deported. He’d been arrested in El Paso for breaking and entering. He couldn’t cross anymore, yet he was still really close to his brother. One day Arson told him he was going to be going to an Indios game, so Charlie asked if Arson could maybe get him a ticket. At first the stadium was more of a place where they could see each other, but after a while Charlie just fell in love with the Indios, like everybody else.
“Charlie was involved with the wrong people. After he got deported, his way of making money was selling. He was so involved in selling drugs that he got to work with J. L., who was the main leader of La Línea. They were pretty much in Juárez on their own, La Línea was. There was no Juárez Cartel. There was no Cártel de Sinaloa or Cártel del Pacifico. These guys were kind of like the guys who decided who could sell and who did what. Charlie was working with J. L. for La Línea probably for like six months. He stopped working with him maybe nine months before he got shot.
“He saw a murder, is what happened. Two guys from where he worked took two other guys out. They were shot at an OXXO, one of those convenience stores, and Charlie saw the whole thing. He told Arson what he had seen and said he had to get out. He changed. He got a job. It was at some warehouse in Juárez. He still couldn’t cross, so he had to stay in Juárez. Charlie realized he had gotten in too deep. He was showing up at games so drugged out. So he just stopped. He quit all that stuff, said ‘Enough is enough.’ He tried to break from La Línea. He wanted a normal life.
“It’s not that easy to get out. The guy who lived in front of Charlie, Fernando, was a really big pusher. He would show up at Charlie’s house to party. It was a constant party. They were doing drugs and shit, partying for three days and shit like that. Once Charlie decided to get out, he tried to avoid Fernando. Charlie would pretend to not be home. He tried to stay friends with everybody, but he was pushing the bad people away.
“One day Fernando says to Charlie, ‘Go with me to distribute this, and then we’re going to pick up some money.’ Charlie had to go with him on some occasions. Fernando was a tough guy. If you would look at him bad, or if he got the impression you didn’t want to talk to him, he’d tell you straight out. He was just kind of a maniac. Even Arson was scared of hi
m. Fernando beat Arson’s ass a couple times to set him straight. To be pretty powerful, you have to do pretty bad stuff. Once you start growing, you’re a target, you’re a threat to everybody else now.
“The day he got killed, Charlie was at this club called Coco Bongo. He and a friend were drinking some beers and apparently these four men walked in and they asked, by name, for two guys: Charlie and this other guy.
“ ‘What the fuck do you want?’ Charlie asked. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’
“One of the four men says, ‘Hey man, we were just asking,’ and then they walked out. Charlie and his friend kept on drinking. Ten or fifteen minutes later the four men came back in. They didn’t say a word, they just shot ’em. That’s it. The other guy died, too. I don’t know who he was. I’m guessing he was one of Charlie’s friends who was involved in the whole drug scene. That had to be, or why else would he be a target?
“They had a funeral service even though Arson and his family are not Catholic. They’re Christian. They cremated Charlie and they brought the ashes to El Paso. He finally got to cross back. They did a little service that we went to. I went over to Arson and we hugged and we both just broke down.
“J. L. got to be the guy by doing bad stuff. He made it known that if you come at him he’ll kill you. Yet Chapo came in and was killing all of J. L.’s people. That’s the main thing that this whole drug war is: Chapo started wanting J. L.’s territory. They’re going toe to toe. But Chapo has too many people on his side. Chapo’s gaining control. Pretty much everybody in La Línea is getting killed. J. L. is recruiting kids now, because he doesn’t want to give up the power yet. But it’s true, like, that Chapo has this territory now. It’s basic greed with El Chapo. If you’re capable of grabbing more territory, you do it. All mankind works that way. Lord of the Flies is how I see it.
“Two weeks after we first saw J. L., he came by again. Everyone in El Kartel was at this club in the Pronaf District, those bars off Lincoln Avenue. The club is not open anymore; somebody torched it. But back then you would walk in and it looked like a black-and-white theme party. After you got past this little entry foyer, you were in a huge room with black couches and white banners. There was a bar to the left, and to the right was a DJ booth. There was another room in the back where they had pool tables. It used to be a gay bar at first. Then it went with the black-and-white theme. It looked upscale. J. L. just showed up that night, again with Charlie.
“I already knew who he was. Call me crazy, but I just went to say, ‘Hi.’ He and I and Arson and Charlie were drinking when all of a sudden Charlie’s like ‘I gotta go, guys.’ We didn’t ask any questions. Before he left, Charlie told Arson that J. L. wanted some El Kartel shirts. He wanted to wear them. Arson asked me if we could make him a shirt. I said, ‘Dude, first, I don’t think we can make a shirt that fucking big. And two, I really don’t think you want him wearing our shirt. What if he’s seen?’ All these years we’ve been fighting the drug cartels in Juárez. Everyone thinks El Kartel and the cartels are linked together. We don’t want to give people a reason. So it was like ‘No, dude.’
“ ‘But he wants one,’ Arson said. He had a point. You can’t say no to somebody like J. L. When he didn’t show up again, we were all just relieved.
“There’s these stories from Durango, where my mom comes from. There were parties at the ranches. The Devil would show up at the party. He would appear as a handsome guy and take the girls out to dance. Only when he would leave did the women notice that his feet were the hooves of a goat. My mom tells old stories like that. It was kind of the same thing with J. L. You see this guy and he’s nice to you, but when he leaves you can’t believe he was there. We were exposed to so much danger. It’s crazy nerve-wracking.”
THE INDIOS’ GREATEST win ever came against a team called Cruz Azul. Blue Cross. A traditional power stocked with stars from the Mexican national team. If the Indios’ 2007 victory over León elevated them into the Primera, beating Cruz Azul a year later allowed them to remain in the top league, an achievement nobody expected. The Indios had played so poorly in their first season that a quick relegation back to the minors appeared inevitable. The slim calculus of survival required the Indios to make the playoffs in their second season, then advance to at least the semifinals, the final four. Unlikely. Highly improbable. That they strung together enough wins to qualify for the last of eight playoff spots was considered a miracle in itself. Their reward was a home-and-home series against Cruz Azul, the winningest team in the league that season.
No goals were scored in the first game, played in Juárez. No fans watched the second game, at least not in person. Swine flu hysteria. The health ministry, fearing the spread of the infectious airborne disease, barred the public from entering the sunken blue bowl where Cruz Azul plays on a field below street level. Indios players wore white masks over their mouths on the flight to Mexico City, and then on the bus to the stadium. The absence of fans gave the match a spooky aura, as if the Indios and Cruz Azul were the only survivors of a nuclear war. Quietly, the Indios won, 1–0. When the final whistle echoed around the empty bleachers, Indios piled atop their goalie, as if they’d just won a championship—which in a way they had. They got to stay in the major league. Francisco Ibarra divided among the players some two million dollars in bonuses.
Although a win in today’s home game against Cruz Azul is just as necessary, interest in the game isn’t as high. At practice all week, television reporters showed up only to grab five minutes of footage before taking off again, no longer able to convince their producers they need to soak up sunshine for the full three hours. A national soccer magazine discontinued its “Relegation Watch” feature, stating, “We all know it’s going to be the Indios.” Even Gil Cantú acknowledges the inevitable. “Yeah, that’s probably true,” he admits when I tell him about the magazine insult. The game is being played on Marco’s twenty-fourth birthday. His parents are here to help him celebrate, and are sitting in Olympic Stadium alongside several other Texas relatives. When Marco runs onto the field for the pregame national anthem, his young nephew from Dallas runs alongside him, which makes two women sitting near me squeal at the cuteness. Head coach Pepe Treviño runs out for the anthem to a shower of boos.
The Indios play their best game yet. What is it with this team, always bouncing back whenever I abandon hope? Early in the first half, Gil’s conspiracy theories are fed when one of our defenders is red-carded out of the game, leaving the Indios shorthanded. But even down a man, the Indios outwork a top team. Marco and the rest of the defense coalesce into an elite unit, an impregnable wall. Cruz Azul forwards sulk in frustration, as if they can’t believe the lowly Indios are shutting them down. At one point, Christian, the number-one goalie, back from his injury, snuffs a Cruz Azul breakaway to preserve the shutout and earn himself Primera player of the week, a major honor. (The goalie who’d started against Atlas wasn’t even allowed to dress in a uniform for this game, a major punishment.) The score is still 0–0 late in the match when Marco somehow finds himself with the ball just outside the Cruz Azul penalty box, unmarked and in shooting range.
“As I kicked it, I thought to myself, Please give me a birthday gift!” Marco will tell me after the game. His slow shot dribbles wide of the net, not even close; the guy’s a defender for a reason. The game ends soon afterwards, a scoreless tie. Angry Cruz Azul players walk off the pitch shouting insults at their hosts. Enjoy the minor leagues, chumps. The tie gives Juárez only a single point in the standings, but I’m happy with the moral victory. It’s inspiring to watch these underdogs play with such heart, and at such a high level. El Kartel, never content, chants in Spanish that Pepe Treviño is not a head coach—he’s a nightclub whore.
The front door of Marco’s house is wide-open a couple hours after the game, when I drop by for his party. Little things like this give me hope. How dangerous can it be in Juárez, really? Marco’s extended family, including young kids, have driven down here, by choice. No one would
bring kids to a real war zone, right? A host of Dany’s Juárez relatives cram into the house, too, overflowing into the backyard, where a flat-screen TV broadcasts a game in the German Bundesliga. I find a seat at one of ten round tables set up in the garage. Dany carves up a spongy soccer ball frosted with the word CONGRATULATIONS, probably the same cake Marco’s been getting since he turned three. He was physically exhausted when he took his shot on goal, he tells me with a sheepish smile. After the massacre at Atlas, it was satisfying to tie a top team, especially shorthanded, and even if the Indios really needed an outright win. He tousles the hair of a nephew as he shares this postgame breakdown. Marco tells me he can’t wait to have kids of his own.
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” he says when I ask if Pepe Treviño is going to be fired, as seems certain.
Chapter 9
Fussion
The players on the indios are in great physical shape. Not a lot of other people in Juárez are. I blame the food. Every day in Juárez I enjoy lunches and dinners that, if I were back in Miami, would register as my best meals of the month. I often go with Marco to Los Bichis, a Sinaloan seafood chain. We watch the Champions League as I tuck into the garlic shrimp and yellow rice I always order. Ramón, in the Indios’ media department, has turned me on to an even better Sinaloan place, nothing but a small roadside shack out near the airport. The specialty there is aguachile: diced onions, raw shrimp, cilantro, cucumbers, and mounds of other stuff dumped into a spicy and cold Clamato base, splashed with lime and served in these huge black lava-rock bowls. When I’m the mood for pure grease, I go for gorditas and carnitas at El Puerco Loco, “the simple taste of the North.” The restaurant’s logo is a smiling pig, an accurate representation of how I feel after swallowing pockets of deep-fried pork that I’m compelled to cut with a bottle or two of sugary Mexican Coca-Cola. Chihuahua is known for the quality of its beef. I love the tender arrachera I get at this small restaurant in El Centro decorated with memorabilia from the bullfights city officials have suspended while the cartels duke it out. If I’m drinking with El Kartel in the Pronaf District, I’ll usually stop on the way home for tacos grilled by this old guy I’ve gotten to know pretty well. Nothing better than Juárez street tacos.
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