by Manuel Ramos
Cut the crap, Móntez. I hurried to my car in the parking lot across the street from the office. My shoes slid on the pavement and I had to catch my balance more than once. I opened my car, glanced over my shoulder and quickly jumped in. The inside of the car was as cold as the outside air. I felt like I sat on a block of ice. I locked the doors, pressed the ignition button, let the car engine warm up some and slowly drove away.
I’d fooled myself into thinking that someone waited for me in the night. I had to believe that the black SUV that entered the street the same time as me was only a coincidence, and that the coincidence stayed in my rearview mirror for several blocks only because we were going in the same direction. I lost the SUV in the traffic on Speer. I kept looking in the mirror but it was impossible to see if the SUV was behind me. When I parked in front of my house I waited for several minutes before I climbed out. No other cars drove along the street. No one followed me. No dark SUV waited with its lights out.
I sat in the dark in my warm house on my leather couch, holding a glass of scotch. I finished the liquor and poured a second one, then a third. To fight back the negativity I thought about all the good things that happened to me since I’d become a lawyer, and how I enjoyed the comfortable life I’d naïvely mocked in my youth as bourgeois and self-indulgent. I’d done all right, considering.
I stretched out on the couch, dropped the dregs of my fourth glass of scotch on the rug and strained to keep my eyes open. I stared outside through the front window of my house and, before I passed out, I saw a black SUV parked in the street.
Part Three
The Mexican Cop
21 [Gus]
en tu casa no me quieren por borracho
When Jerome and I left Luis in his office, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for him to be alone. The guy who was careful about his work and who took his time to carefully analyze every situation had moved past me in the nervous department. I could tell that he was concerned about Rosa and me, and I respected that, but I wasn’t sure what I could do to help.
“He’ll be all right,” Jerome said. “He’s shook up but he looked to have a grip on what’s happening. You can’t be with him all the time, anyway, and he wouldn’t want that.”
I drove the Kia. We were headed towards Berkeley Park and Jerome’s house. Patches of snow and ice dotted the street but it was nothing like we’d faced the past few days.
We agreed to stop for a drink in one of the new bars along Thirty-Eighth Avenue. The cold temperatures hadn’t kept customers from the place, and like so many other joints in my gentrified part of town, we had to deal with standing room only. The name of the place was Calhoun’s. That’s about all I remember of the club. Nothing stood out about it that was any different from the dozen or so other bars that burst onto the Northside scene. It was a watering hole with noisy drunks, meaningless music in the background and overpriced craft beers. We had two beers each with very little conversation, and then Jerome nodded at me and we left.
As we walked out the bar Ana’s youngest brother, Chris, entered. He saw me coming and made a move like he was going to bump me with his elbow. I stepped aside and he glided by me and into one of the waitresses. She fell backwards and dropped the tray of drinks she carried.
“Goddamn!” the waitress shouted.
Chris Domingo stayed on his feet, but the way he wobbled told me he’d reached his limit that night.
“Hey, Chris,” I said. “You okay?” He flipped me the bird.
“What’s going on?” Jerome asked.
One of the men who walked in with Chris grabbed him by the elbow. “Take it easy, Chris. Come on, let’s get that drink.” The crowd that surrounded Chris and the waitress moved as one and they disappeared into the bar.
“That’s Ana’s brother,” I said.
“Apparently not a fan.”
“Her brothers hate me, all of them. They can’t believe their sister is mixed up with a lowlife like me.”
“And I can’t believe that you’re mixed up with a cop.”
“It is kinda strange, no?”
“Strange is craving a Quesarito from Taco Bell. What you’re into qualifies for Ripley’s. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I laughed.
“That guy gonna bother you?” Jerome said. “Do we need to do something about him?”
“No, man. He’s my girlfriend’s brother. I’m not going to do anything. He has to learn to live with me. It’s an adjustment. Change ain’t easy. If you can stand me, he should be able to deal with it.”
I focused on driving and getting Jerome home. We listened to a news radio station but we didn’t pay it much attention. We were lost in our own dark thoughts. I pulled up under a snow covered tree in front of his house. He climbed out and I waited while he made his way to his front door.
Lights exploded in front of me and I hunkered down below the dash, out of instinct, only for a second. When I looked back up, a pickup truck’s lights blinded me for a few heartbeats. The truck had screeched to a stop only inches from the Kia’s front end. Chris Domingo jumped out of the passenger side. The guy who’d pulled him away in the bar jumped out of the driver’s side. He ran after Jerome, and I flashed on the thought that the driver had made a serious mistake. Chris ran towards me, hollering obscenities.
I timed my reaction based on Chris’s staggering dash. At the right instant I whipped open the Kia’s door and smashed Chris. A hollow thump echoed in the cold air. He clutched his chest and opened his mouth like a fish. He fell in the snow with a dull thud. I climbed out of the Kia and stood over Chris. He was having trouble breathing. In the background I could hear Jerome beating up Chris’ friend. I cringed with each crunch and groan.
Chris continued to grab at his chest. His eyes popped like they were going to fall out of his face.
“You got the wind knocked out of your lungs. It’s gonna hurt like hell for a few minutes. You think you’ll never breathe again, but you will. It’s happened to me. You think you’re dying, but you’re not.”
He kicked futilely at me but he wasn’t trying to stand up.
“You and Ana should have a talk, Chris. In fact, all of you Domingo brother assholes should sit down and let Ana straighten you out. You, Junior, Paul and Baby Gaby, that’s what you call him, right?”
He managed to get to his knees.
“You . . . son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get out of the way. Go pick up your buddy and get the hell out of here before the cops arrest you for littering the landscape.”
I walked over to Jerome, who sat on his front porch. Chris’ friend sprawled in the snow, unconscious.
“You okay?” I asked.
“What I tell you, Gus? Every damn time you get into some mess, I get caught up in it too. What is it with you, man?”
“I love you too, pal. Let’s throw this guy back in his truck and see if we can get that piece of shit crawling in the street behind the wheel so he can get out of here. Okay?”
When we finished and Chris drove away, I turned on the Kia. I looked for Jerome so I could tell him thanks, but he’d entered his house and turned out the lights.
I played around with the idea of calling Ana. I didn’t follow through. I figured her brothers would fill her in on what happened soon enough, and then it would be up to me to convince her that I told the truth.
22 [Luis]
I’m here to tell ya honey
that I’m bad to the bone
When I woke up I was still on the couch. Sunlight filled the front window. My eyes adjusted slowly. The black SUV no longer sat in the street. I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed it.
I found my cell phone and Gus’ message. He wanted to verify that I’d made it home okay. “Call me as soon as you get this.”
I had two glasses of water, threw more water on my face, and then I called him.
“You at your house?” he asked.
“Yeah. I gotta ask you something.” I sounded like my throa
t had been ripped open and then sewn shut with wire. “You see anything funny last night?”
“Funny?”
“Different. Like you were being followed?”
“Oh, I was followed. Talk about funny. But it’s not what you think.”
“If it was a black SUV, then it’s exactly what I think.”
“Someone followed you home?”
“I think so. Actually, I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking you.”
He told me about his fight with one of Ana’s brothers. “That can’t be what you’re talking about,” he said at the end of his story. “I don’t know anything about a black SUV.”
“It might not have been black. A dark color. It was behind me when I left the office, then I thought I saw it again here at the house, but . . . I can’t be sure.”
“Didn’t you check it out?”
“No, not really.”
“What make? Or year?”
“Hell, they all look alike to me. My father liked to say SUVs looked like pregnant roller skates. Maybe SUV is the wrong word. They used to be called station wagons. But I don’t know for sure.”
“I don’t get it. Was there someone following you or not?”
“The truth is, I was knocked out on my couch. I got so worked up I chugged too much scotch. Booze just seems to put me to sleep now. There could’ve been someone here, or not.”
“You think it was our pal, Paco? No one’s outside now?”
“No. The street is clear. If there was someone, he left me alone last night, although if he busted in with a wrecking ball I wouldn’t have known it. And he’s not around now. Probably just my imagination.”
“Be careful, Luis. We don’t know what’s going on. Maybe Ana’s heard something. Or that cop, Batista? You talk with him yet?”
“Not yet. That’s next.”
“Okay. I’ll get back to you after I talk with Ana. Meanwhile, you going to the office?”
“Yeah. Rosa’s there and I don’t want her to be alone.”
“Good point. I’ll come on in myself. We should go over with her what we’re thinking. Maybe she ought to just stay home?”
“I suggested that already. Not going to happen, according to her.”
“No surprise. All right, I’ll check you later.”
I tried Batista’s cell phone but all I heard was a message that the line was out of service.
The weather had finally broken. Not only was the sun out in full force, but the temperature was rising every quarter hour. The weatherman predicted we would overtake the freezing mark. The day promised to be clear, no snow, with a good deal of melting on the agenda. Except for my headache and the nagging feeling that someone watched me, I felt good.
I cleaned up, had a bowl of cereal and called Rosa to tell her I was coming in. I asked if she was okay, and she acted like I had no reason to ask that question.
I drove as quickly as I could to the office and parked the car. At the corner, I shivered in the bright cold sunshine as I waited for the pedestrian light so I could cross the street.
“Señor Móntez?” I turned abruptly to face the person who asked the question. A man leaned against the corner of the building to my left. I hadn’t seen him standing in the shade.
I couldn’t see his face clearly. My first thought was that it was Paco. I tensed up.
He repeated, “Señor Móntez?” He stepped out of the shadow.
I recognized the Mexican cop.
“Batista? What are you . . . ?”
“I waited out here, rather than your office. I didn’t want to interfere with your staff. We should talk.”
“Sure. But let’s get inside.”
We crossed the street and walked in the building. I took him to my back office under Rosa’s watchful eye.
His scar was much more noticeable in person, under the bright lights.
“This is a surprise,” I said. “Uh, you want something? Coffee, water?”
“Café. Sí. Denver is cold. Gracias.”
“Black or . . . ?”
“Just the coffee, por favor.”
I found the freshly brewed pot Rosa had made and poured two cups.
I waited while he had a sip or two and settled back in his chair.
“This is unexpected, I know,” he said.
“You didn’t say you were coming to Denver when we talked. Why the surprise?”
“I didn’t know I was headed up north. I learned after our call that Abarca was on his way here. I left as soon as I knew. I didn’t take time to call you.”
“How do you know he’s here?”
“Informants.”
“Really?”
“Men who decided they had better things to do than endure our questioning. A few cooperated after we explained their options. That happened after we talked.”
“You tortured them?”
He looked at the books in the nearest bookcase. “The criminals I hunt are animals. They don’t respond to usual techniques. We learned that from your anti-terrorist officials. We work closely with them. In the right case.”
The guy intimidated me on Skype but in person he was a hundred times scarier. I didn’t want to know any more about how he knew his fugitive was in Denver.
“So Sam Contreras is back?”
“Sam Contreras?” He shook his head.
“The actual name of the man you know as Paco Abarca. We recognized him from the photo you sent.”
“Contreras? I don’t understand.”
I began with Sam in Denver, running the bar, but also involved with Richard Valdez in drug smuggling. I reminded him of María Contreras and her story about Valdez and the missing money. I explained my belief that Valdez had been killed by Sam or María, or both, and that Sam had operated in Mexico as Paco Abarca.
“But Abarca is not a recent creation,” Batista said. “He’s been known to us since the alleged attack on the fishing boat and what we thought was the death of Contreras and the guide.”
“The guide, Abarca, or whatever name he had, may have been real. He probably died on the boat. Sam assumed his identity. Actually, I think he created the Paco Abarca person. The real guide was probably too well-known for Contreras’ purposes.”
“Contreras killed the guide?”
“I don’t know. There are many possibilities. Somehow Contreras made it look as though he died in the boat, too. Since then, I believe he’s been going back and forth between Mexico and the U.S., as Abarca, running drugs, other contraband. You caught him smuggling again, but I think he was also involved in the killing of Valdez up here.”
He finished the coffee and put the cup on my desk. “You want more?” I asked. “No. Gracias. I was thinking, though, that if what you say is true, it explains a lot.”
“Such as?” “The man I knew as Paco Abarca was apparently a man of influence. I think I told you that. The way he lived in prison, the escape he pulled off during the riot. I have since learned that he was connected to several major criminals on both sides of the border. He was a drug smuggler, but that was not his main business.”
“It’s not? I find that hard to believe.” “I’ve interrogated the others that were captured at the same time we captured him. These other men confirm that Abarca was not just one of the hired hands. He was jefe, chief of human smuggling operations, a business that paid off in huge profits for him and his associates.”
“Human trafficking?” “Yes. He transported women and children to the U.S. for the sex trade. He smuggled workers, with promises of jobs, only to have them end up as slaves, isolated and unpaid, in various jobs in your Midwest states. Construction in the cities, sheepherding in the mountains, maids and other domestic workers everywhere. It was a very profitable business. He was on the move constantly, back and forth across the border. Overseeing the operation, we assume.”
I whistled through my teeth. “Drugs, trafficking. A real sweetheart, this guy. Anything else?”
Batista nodded. “These criminals are always expandi
ng their business. Apparently, Abarca, or Contreras, had something to do with the marijuana trade here in your state. The legalization of that drug opened new opportunities that he wanted to get involved with. He may have already dipped into that venture. We aren’t sure at this point.”
“I don’t understand. The legalization of marijuana was supposed to get rid of the illegal element. What’s in it for a guy like Contreras?”
“There’s too much money on the table for these people to ignore. They will find a way to get their share. As they always do. In any case, his partners protected him after he was arrested and helped him escape. We know he’s here in your city. I didn’t know precisely why he would come here, other than the thin connection to your dead client. But if, in fact, he is your dead client’s husband, and she had some of his money, then it fits together.”
“You think he intends to operate out of Denver?”
“It’s a possibility. But sooner or later there will be a change in his popularity, so to speak. He has to be running out of money. Even his powerful friends can’t help him when he’s on the run, hiding from everyone. I assume whatever he had when he escaped has been used to get this far. He requires fresh resources. Your client’s missing money is exactly what he needs now.”
“What do you mean a change in his popularity?”
“At some point, Contreras will be more of a liability than an asset to his friends. He was more useful to them in prison than on the run, if you can believe that. They will cut him off, maybe try to limit their exposure.”
“So they’ll hunt him, too?”
“It’s the way these people live. And die.”