The Border: A Novel

by Don Winslow

  But Keller nixed it.

  “If we bust Eddie, we have Eddie,” the boss said. “If he gives us his Mexican source, we may or may not be able to get him. I want it all—Eddie, his source, the bankers, the real estate developers, everybody. If we don’t do that, what are we doing?”

  I don’t know, boss, Hidalgo thinks, but I know we’re running out of clock in this game. It’s football, not baseball; we’re not guaranteed to get up to the plate for our swings before the new guy gets in and blows the whistle. We have to make our move now.

  But he gets it. There’s something to Keller’s argument.

  The warrant issue is another story.

  Hidalgo wants to wire Eddie’s crib.

  They turn it into Muscle Shoals, they might get Crazy Eddie on the phone, talking to his people south of the border. They’d get all kinds of useful shit. Yeah, they’d want a warrant, but why can’t Keller get it from the same federal judge he got the Pierre warrant from? They have more predicate on this than they had on the big banker meeting.

  Except the boss won’t go there.

  “Too risky.”

  What’s the risk? Hidalgo wonders. That it will leak? That the opposition inside DEA will get wind of it? Or that it gets back to our banker buddies and they shut down their deal? But if that were the case, the judge would have blown them already.

  So why won’t Keller do it?

  He wants to “think about it.”

  Hidalgo even took a chance and bumped it to the next level. Like, okay, boss, if you don’t want to go for a warrant, let’s do it off the books. He even said he’d risk breaking into Eddie’s place and setting the wire, monitor it himself. Hell, they went cowboy on the tracking device, what’s the difference?

  Keller said no again. Or at least he said “not yet.”

  Again, he wanted to think about it.

  What’s there to think about?

  Keller isn’t exactly Mr. By-the-Book. The stories about him are legend, and those stories aren’t about his slavish adherence to proper procedure.

  So has he just lost his nerve? His drive? Or . . .

  What’s he afraid of?

  It’s worrisome. Hidalgo knows that Keller and Ruiz go way back, that Ruiz was a source of his back in Mexico, that Eddie gave up Diego Tapia, and in return Keller brokered Eddie’s sweet sentencing deal.

  So is he still protecting Eddie?

  And if so, why?

  Hidalgo makes sure he doesn’t look up from his phone as he sees Eddie get up, toss his burrito wrapper into the garbage can and walk away.

  Where are you going, motherfucker?

  To the bank.

  Well, banks, plural.

  First Eddie drives two hours all the way east to Calexico, a town that, as the name indicates, straddles the California-Mexico border. There are four small banks in the town and he uses small banks because they need money and they don’t get the attention from the government that the big banks get.

  Eddie already knows which ones play.

  That is, which banks will take multiple $9,500 deposits of cash in a few days from the same people and not file a Suspicious Activity Report. Under $10K it’s at the bank’s discretion, but by law, if they get suspicious deposits under the ten, they’re supposed to file an SAR.

  Some banks are less suspicious than others.

  Eddie doesn’t go to Wells Fargo.

  Too big, too much supervision.

  He picks two smaller banks and deposits $9,500 at each.

  Then he works his way back west, stopping in little towns like El Centro, Brawley, Borrego Springs, Julian and Ramona, making deposits in each like Johnny Moneyseed. Then he hits the suburbs, Poway, Rancho Bernardo, then small cities like Escondido and Alpine. Back in San Diego metro, he works the outskirts and hits banks in El Cajon, National City and Chula Vista.

  It takes several days, but by the time he’s done, he’s dumped a mil.

  The other two he gives to Osvaldo to drive down to Mexico and take to Caro.

  Eddie’s buying into the syndicate.

  He’s a proud investor in Park Tower.

  Vegas, baby.

  A suite at the Four Seasons.

  Cirello settles in and waits for Ruiz’s courier.

  Funny what you get used to and how quick, he thinks, looking out the window at the Strip below. Private jets, hotel suites, room service, blue-ribbon booze on the bar . . . it’s all the norm now, business as usual, what he expects.

  Except things are going to change now.

  If he can make the big play.

  The next step up the ladder. First it was DeStefano, then Andrea, then Cozzo. Then the move up to Darnell.

  Next.

  The doorbell rings.

  It’s Osvaldo. “You have my package?”

  “Come on in.”

  Osvaldo looks hesitant.

  “We need to talk,” Cirello says.

  “You breaking up with me?” Osvaldo asks. But he steps in. “What?”

  “I have to meet your guy,” Cirello says. He hands him the bags.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Every problem is an opportunity, right?” Cirello asks. He lays it out the way Mullen told him to. “You know I’ve been kicking to a guy in DEA. Now the guy is getting hinky—and he wants a bigger taste. That’s the bad news. The good news is he has some ideas.”

  “What kind of ideas?” Osvaldo asks.

  “Growing the business.”

  “I’ll take it to my guy,” Osvaldo says.

  “No, I’ll take it to your guy,” Cirello says. He knows it’s the moment, make or break. They buy or they don’t. They don’t, they bitch to Darnell, and he’s back on duty at One Police. He’s not sure how he wants this to go. “Here’s the thing. I don’t know you. All I know, I could be delivering cash to a cop, earning myself thirty-to-life. My DEA guy has the same concerns. We need to know who we’re dealing with here.”

  “Ask Darnell.”

  “Darnell’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “It’s his money in those bags.”

  “No, it’s your guy’s money in those bags,” Cirello says. “And I need to know that he exists, and then I need to eyeball him.”

  “How’s that going to help?”

  “Because I’ll know,” Cirello says. “And I’ll present your boss with an opportunity that, believe me, he doesn’t want to miss.”

  Osvaldo thinks it over, then, “I’ll ask.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  For two long hours.

  Then the phone rings. “Five minutes. Lobby. You sit at the bar.”

  Cirello goes downstairs and sits at the bar. Lets whoever wants to look at him look at him, make sure he’s alone. Maybe they’re on the phone to Darnell, in which case he’s fucked. His phone rings. “Rent a car. Right now. Drive to the Speedway and park.”

  Pain in the ass, Cirello thinks.

  But he goes to the desk, rents a Camaro and drives north on the 15 to Las Vegas Speedway and pulls into the enormous parking lot. Maybe twenty other cars and trucks are spread out over the lot. Cirello knows they’re in one of the vehicles, watching him.

  He sits there for twenty minutes. Is about to leave—fuck ’em—when a Shelby Mustang pulls up on the driver’s side.

  Eddie Ruiz is behind the wheel. “Get in.”

  Cirello gets out of the Camaro and gets into the Shelby. If they’re going to pop him, it’s going to be right now. But there’s no one in the back seat.

  Ruiz leans over and pats him down.

  Feels the gun but no wire.

  Because there isn’t one.

  “What are you carrying?” Ruiz asks.

  “A Sig nine.”

  “I like the Glock,” Ruiz says. “No safety to deal with.”

  “I like the safety.”

  “You wanted to look me in the eye,” Ruiz says. “Look me in the eye.”

  Cirello does.

  “So now you seen me,” Eddie says. “What do
you want?”

  “To do some business.”

  “We are doing business,” Eddie says.

  “You and Darnell are doing business,” Cirello says. “I’m just a gofer.”

  “I know who you are,” Eddie says. “Does Darius know you’re trying to do a separate deal?”

  “Not unless you told him,” Cirello says.

  “What happens in Vegas . . .”

  “So you’re interested.”

  “Let’s go have some fun.”

  Eddie has rented time on the track. Fifty bucks a lap, what does he care? They put on helmets and all that happy shit, roll out onto the track and Eddie hits the gas. Eighty, ninety, a hundred, they slide into a banked turn and Cirello feels like he’s going to puke.

  Next lap Eddie kicks it up to a buck twenty. He’s hooting, hollering, giving it one of those shitkicker Texas whoops, and Cirello imagines what it’s going to be like smashing into the wall, flipping over it, spinning in the air, crashing in a ball of flame.

  They hit the straightaway, Eddie yells over the roar of the engine, “Talk!”

  “The fed I kick to!” Cirello says. “He wants to sit down with you!”

  “This guy have a name?!”

  “Meet him, you can find out!”

  The curve comes up so fast. Eddie shuts up and concentrates—even he’s a little scared. The car drifts up and out, but Eddie doesn’t hit the brakes, he hits the gas, powers through the curve, lets the car do the work.

  Cirello’s stomach is coming through his mouth.

  One thirty . . . forty . . . fifty . . .

  Next fucking curve. Jesus Christ.

  “You scared?!” Eddie asks.

  “Yes!”

  Eddie laughs.

  Speeds up.

  One sixty, one sixty-five going into the next curve. Cirello’s pretty sure he’s going to die. But the car sails through the curve and makes it out the other side. On the straightaway Eddie yells, “They say this thing can hit two hundred!”

  “You ever done this before?!”

  “No!”

  Great, Cirello thinks. “Can we stop dicking around, get down to business?!”

  “This is only our first date!” Eddie says. “Don’t push me into a threesome already! Besides, life is short, man. You have to get your fun when you can. Aren’t you having fun?!”

  No, Cirello thinks. And he can’t let Eddie jerk him like this, it sets a bad precedent for the power relationship. “You don’t meet this guy, I’m out! Too risky having him as an enemy!”

  “You threatening me?!”

  “I’m just telling you how it is!”

  “I can buy another New York cop!” Eddie says.

  “You want referrals?!”

  Eddie bails at one eighty, lets up on the pedal, eases into the pit. “That was a rush. Holy shit. I mean, when you were a kid, did you ever think you’d be doing a buck eighty-five in a primo car on a private track?!”

  “Didn’t occur to me, no.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet your guy,” Eddie says. “But it better be worth my fucking time.”

  Nobu Hotel at Caesars Palace.

  Osvaldo opens the door and lets them in. Pats them down—guns are okay, wires verboten.

  A suite, natch.

  It’s bigger than Cirello’s apartment. A bar, of course, a “media room” with a flat-screen LED, even a pool table. Cirello knows Ruiz has had it swept upside down and backward, and neither he nor Hidalgo is wired up.

  Too risky and no need.

  He only hopes Hidalgo is as good as his rep. The guy did fine in the bag job back in New York, but undercover is a different gig. Hidalgo is smart and tough, no question, but this is a big play to pull off.

  Hidalgo looks the part, though, rocking a slate-gray Armani that cost more than his pay grade should allow. Open white custom shirt, Gucci loafers. A young wolf on the make. It’s in the playbook Keller gave them—Ruiz pays a lot of attention to clothes. Today he’s in his trademark polo shirt—sky blue—and khaki trousers.

  Hidalgo makes his play straight off.

  It’s ballsy.

  “I’m going to pat you down, too,” Hidalgo says. “Both of you.”

  Could have queered the meet right there, but Eddie smiles and lifts his arms. Hidalgo pats him down for a wire, does the same with Osvaldo. Then he takes a sweeper, runs it around the room.

  “I did that already,” Osvaldo says.

  “You did it for you,” Hidalgo says. “I’m doing this for me.”

  He doesn’t find a bug.

  “Happy now?” Eddie asks. “Sit down, have a drink.”

  Osvaldo bartends—a Dos Equis for Cirello, a vodka and tonic for Hidalgo. Eddie has an iced tea, Osvaldo doesn’t drink.

  “Eddie,” Cirello says, “this is Agent Fuentes.”

  “Tony,” Hidalgo says.

  Keller has created a whole identity for him. If anyone checks, they’ll find his file at DEA. Came up through Fort Worth PD, caught on with DEA, did UC in California, then at the Seattle office, then came into DEA Central.

  Career on a bullet.

  Divorced, no kids.

  Condo in Silver Springs.

  “Hello, Tony,” Eddie says. “You Mexican?”

  “Mexican American.”

  “A fellow pocho.”

  “I know who you are,” Hidalgo says.

  “The price of fame,” Eddie says. “Look, if you want more money, you should be talking to Darnell, not me.”

  “Darnell is a field hand,” Hidalgo says. “I want to deal with the plantation owner.”

  He has balls, Cirello thinks.

  Clanging.

  Eddie looks at Cirello. “Have you told Darnell he’s a cotton picker?”

  “I probably left that out,” Cirello says. “Let me put this another way. I’m a New York guy, I can give you New York. Fuentes is at DEA headquarters, the Intelligence Division. He sees everything.”

  “You’re jacking me up for a raise?” Eddie asks Hidalgo. “Okay, what are we talking? Give me a number.”

  “I don’t want an employer,” Hidalgo says. “I want a partner.”

  “Then buy a Souplantation.”

  Push it, Cirello thinks. You have to push him now or lose him.

  “You’re looking at this wrong,” Hidalgo says.

  “I am?”

  “Yeah,” Hidalgo says. “Right now you have one outlet for your product—Darius Darnell. That gives you certain markets in New York, and if that’s all you want, fine, we’ll have a drink and I’ll find someone more ambitious, no hard feelings. But you have all your eggs in one black basket, and it’s a small basket. Anything happens to Darnell, you’re out of business. In the meantime, your competitors south of the border are moving in on New York in bigger ways, working with Hispanics. It’s only a matter of time before they drive Darnell out of the market. And then, once again, you’re out of business.”

  “And how are you going to prevent that?”

  “How did Adán Barrera rise to the top?” Hidalgo asks. “You know, you were there.”

  “Why don’t you tell me anyway?”

  Cirello sees Eddie is starting to get angry.

  “The Mexican government helped him kill off his competition,” Hidalgo says. “The rest had no choice but to come in with him. With my access, we can do the same for you here in the United States.”

  Dead fucking silence.

  “Don’t just think defensively,” Hidalgo says. “Don’t just think, ‘This fed can tell me whether or not I’m on the radar.’ Think offensively—‘This fed can steer DEA operations against my competitors.’ It can work the other way, too—you get information on your competitors, you give it to us, we can act on it. Just like Barrera.”

  “How do I know you have that kind of stroke?”

  “Log on to the papers tomorrow,” Hidalgo says. “Because tonight, DEA is going to hit a Núñez heroin mill in the Bronx for fifteen kilos. My gift to you, call it proof of concept.”
/>   Eddie looks at Cirello. “You’d fuck your boy Darnell like this?”

  “No one is talking about fucking Darnell over,” Cirello says. “We’re talking about expanding. He can ride the elevator with you, that’s your choice. But he can’t know about Fuentes.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a black ex-con,” Hidalgo says. “I can’t trust him. Eddie, you want to be a small-market team, that’s fine. I get it. It’s good money, it’s a good life, every few years you make the playoffs. But if you want to be the Yankees, the Dodgers, the Cubs, we can help you get there. We can get you into Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, LA.”

  “Vegas, for that matter,” Cirello says.

  “We can help you move your money,” Hidalgo says. “Tell you what banks are safe, what loans, what syndicates . . . We’ll even set you up with people.”

  Cirello watches Ruiz thinking.

  Ruiz is a survivor.

  He came out of a small gang in Laredo and made himself the head hit man for the Sinaloa cartel.

  Then he went with Diego Tapia.

  Flipped on him when it was a matter of saving his own skin.

  Eddie Ruiz’s loyalty is to Eddie Ruiz.

  “And what do you get for all this?” Eddie asks.

  “Points,” Hidalgo says. “I eat when you eat.”

  “How much of my dinner do you want?”

  “My mother always told me, ‘Eat like a horse, not like a pig,’” Hidalgo says. “So five percent.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “Make me a counter, then.”

  “Two.”

  “Thanks for the drink,” Hidalgo says. He looks at Cirello like, Let’s get up. “I don’t get out of bed for two.”

  “Can you set your alarm for three?”

  “Maybe four.”

  “Three and a half,” Eddie says. “If you check out, if you do what you say you can do.”

  “I will,” Hidalgo says, “and watch the news tomorrow. No offense, but are you the decision maker, Eddie? Or do you need to talk to someone else?”

  “I’ll need to run this past some people.”

  “I’ll be in town for the weekend,” Hidalgo says. “You can reach me through Cirello here. He’ll be the go-between, the bagman.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”