by Manuel Ramos
And if it happened the way Batista outlined, Sam Contreras would become a more desperate, and dangerous, man.
“What do the Denver police say about this?” I asked. “You working with them?”
He hesitated. “I haven’t talked with the police here, yet. Not since I arrived. I came to see you first. I wanted to talk with you last night, but I lost you in the traffic, and when I finally found your house, it was late and you didn’t answer when I knocked. So I waited until today.”
“That was you following me?”
“I was trying to make contact. I did a sloppy job.”
“You have no idea.”
“I apologize.”
“No matter. Why not work with the Denver police?”
“I don’t have any authority here. I would have to be asked by Denver police to even observe a matter here in la gabacha, or at least they would have to approve a formal request from the Mexican government. And when a Mexican fugitive escapes into the United States, several diplomatic and political protocols have to be followed. Certain officials from my country have to talk with officials from yours. There are papers, forms, legal documents that have to be processed. I’ve been through all that in the past.”
“You didn’t want to go through it again?”
He nodded. “I would, in the routine case. But . . . this man escaped after I locked him in prison. That’s never happened to me. I have a responsibility to take him back. He’s accountable for the suffering of hundreds, if not thousands, of Mexican citizens. He’s a killer. I couldn’t wait for the politicians to make a decision.”
His rigid face and clenched fists emphasized his words. I had no doubt about the man’s commitment to capturing his escaped prisoner and making him pay. I took it to be more than professional pride. There was something personal about the way Batista spoke about the fugitive. Alone, in a foreign country, without any legal authority, he was on a dangerous road.
“And you couldn’t risk that one of his friends would find out about your formal request?”
He intertwined the fingers of his two hands and held them in front of his chest. Several small scars dotted his hands. They could have been burns.
“The connection between some of the politicians and the men who worked with Abarca, uh, Contreras, is close. I’m sure the fact that I left the country and am here in Denver is known to several of my superiors. Let’s hope none of them are involved with Contreras. I won’t be surprised if I’m summoned back.”
“So, you’re here unofficially? You’re on your own?”
“Sí. Así es.”
He reminded me of Mexican relatives I hadn’t visited in years. Dark skin from indigenous ancestors, height and bone mass from an African or two, pale brown Spanish eyes.
“Do you have an idea how you’re going to find Contreras?”
He smiled and the scar on his cheek wiggled like a snake.
“I was hoping you would lead me to him.”
“You want to use me as bait?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, señor. The money is the key, I believe. If Contreras thinks you know where the missing money is, he will show himself to get it.”
I could see where he was headed with his plan, and I didn’t particularly like it.
“Before you get too carried away, you should meet my assistant, Gus. We should go over everything with him. If there is anything we can do to help, I need to hear what he thinks.”
“This Gus who works for you? You want him involved?”
“He’s been involved since the beginning. I need his help. He can help you, too.”
I tried to imagine Gus’ reaction to Batista’s story. The best I could do was think of his smile that wasn’t really a smile, his frown that wasn’t really a frown. But he certainly would find Batista’s words interesting.
“I can use whatever help you offer. But you know the danger.”
“I understand, and so does Gus. How should we work this?”
“Señor, I believe I will have another cup of coffee.”
23 [Gus]
get along little doggies it’s your misfortune and none of my own
The conversation with Ana went easier than I expected.
She summoned me to her office, where she was trying to finish up a few projects left over from the previous year. No hugs or kisses, no “how have you been?” Her cool reception and business tone were her way of telling me that I had messed up.
“Chris is a hothead,” she said, after I explained my side of the confrontation with her brother.
I thought I presented a pretty good defense. “He wanted to kill me. He’s lucky I didn’t call the cops.” I would never do that.
“But you shouldn’t have hurt him. He had to go to a doctor to check out his ribs. His sternum, really. Nothing’s broken but he has a bruise that covers his entire chest.”
“I protected myself. He was determined to beat me up. I ended it as quickly as I could.”
“He won’t forget. I’ve had to get all up in his face—and my other brothers’—about leaving you alone. Chris is the worst, the most stubborn, just like our father. He’s always treated me like I’m made out of glass. He gave hell to every boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“I think my arrest record has more to do with the way he acted than his thinking he needed to protect you.”
“Whatever. If you see any of my brothers, avoid them. Walk away.”
“How can I avoid your brothers if I’m going to keep on seeing you? We’re bound to run into each other.”
“Just stay away from them.”
“Nothing would make me happier. But it’s not entirely under my control.”
She shrugged. “Guess that’s the best I’ll get from you.”
“I’m not looking for trouble with your brothers, but I won’t run away from them either.”
She nodded. “Goddamn men.”
We talked for a few more minutes until she ran out of cuss-words and orders about how I was to act around her family.
Then she asked for a favor.
“Let’s go to the parade. I’ve never seen it.”
“Parade?”
The newspaper and TV news shows were filled with stories about the annual mid-January National Western Stock Show that brought thousands of visitors to Denver and poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into the city’s economy. The city dressed up like one giant cowboy and showcased its history as a cow town.
“I’ve lived in Denver all my life and I’ve never even been to the stock show.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I am. The parade starts in about a half hour, over by Union Station, then it goes down Seventeenth. The cowboys herd a bunch of cattle through the streets. They’re all dressed up for the rodeo. I want to see it, and if we leave now, we’ll make it just in time. We can walk.”
The cowboy parade was a better alternative than continuing to talk with her about her nut job brothers.
The long shadows of winter crisscrossed the streets and sidewalks of downtown Denver. We walked to the mall, between the skyscrapers, through the shadows and against a stiff breeze that whipped the crowd assembled for the parade.
My cell buzzed.
“Where are you?” Luis said. “Batista’s in town and the three of us should meet.”
“Batista? What? You won’t believe where I am. I’m walking to the stock show parade with Ana.”
“You’re serious?”
“That’s what I said. But here I am.”
“Can you come back to the office? We really do need to talk . . . uh, wait a minute.”
Someone in the background said something about seeing the city, getting some fresh air.
“Hang on, Gus.”
Ana and I continued on our trek to the beginning of the parade. People were lined up along the street.
“I’ll never see anything,” Ana said. “I’m too short.”
We moved in as close as we could to the side
walk but we were still several rows back. I held my phone to my ear and waited for Luis to finish the call.
“Batista and I will walk downtown, meet you,” Luis said over the phone. “He could use some breakfast. Brunch now, I guess. Where are you?”
“We’ll be at Blake and Seventeenth, a couple blocks from Union Station.”
Ana and I huddled close in the crowd. “That wind is cold,” she said. I hugged her closer and felt her warmth. We waited among the watchers—kids dressed up like cowboys with their parents or grandparents, office workers taking an early lunch, tourists in town for the show, ranchers and farmers on their annual journey to the big city. Union Station sat like an ancient monument at the end of the street.
“The parade will come from around that corner.” I pointed in the direction of the station. “Here come some cowboys now.” A group of men mounted on horses rode up the street, followed by a 1940s Ford pickup decorated with bunting and flags. The shiny midnight blue truck crawled along the street with a smooth purr. A tall black man wearing a stylish Stetson waved from the back of the pickup.
“That’s the parade’s Grand Marshal,” Ana said.
“Is that . . . ?”
“Yeah, the ball player. Denver native.”
The pickup passed on and, for a few seconds, no one followed. Then more cowboys filled the street. They wore chaps, boots and ten-gallon hats. They twirled ropes and a few threw candy to the children in the crowd. They appeared authentic to me, but what did I really know about cowboys? When that group passed, the crowd stirred with a buzz.
“Here they come,” I announced.
Ana stretched on her toes to get a better view of the cattle that rushed around the corner. She leaned on me for balance. Through our coats I felt her tight body, hard from exercise and police training.
The longhorns seemed too big for the street. The brown or gray animals lumbered straight ahead, one following the other. I expected them to smash their enormous horns together but they marched as one huge beast under the guidance and prompting of the cowboys. The herders kept the cows moving with twisting ropes and the sleek muscle of their horses. A few of the drovers hollered “yip” or “ay-ay.”
“I can’t see,” Ana said. “I need to get up front for a better look.” Before I could say or do anything to stop her, she pushed her way to the curb only a few inches from the cattle.
“Ana, wait.” She eased through the crowd by slipping by a woman who struggled to keep her young son secure in her arms. “Ana!” I shouted.
The woman looked up at me. Ana stopped. The boy screamed and squirmed lose from his mother. He stumbled to the street. Ana reached to grab him but she tripped on the curb and fell face first. A ribbon of blood appeared on her forehead. The boy regained his balance, then ran back to his mother. Ana tried to stand up but she bumped into one of the steers, who jerked back and hit another one of the longhorns. The sudden movement caused the animals to speed up. Ana fell back on the street.
The parade watchers retreated from the street. I was caught up in the rush away from Ana. I heard someone say “stampede.” I peered through the crowd and saw Ana try to stand up again, but one of the longhorns pushed against her and she fell for a third time. The boy screamed again when his mother tried to retreat to the back of the crowd. The herd picked up more speed. They grunted and tossed their horns in every direction. Some were so close to Ana that I lost sight of her as I pushed and shoved kids and tourists. A man smashed against my shoulder as he ran from the street. I couldn’t see Ana.
I kept fighting against the crowd until I made it to the sidewalk. The cattle were gone. I looked up the street. The cowboys regained control and the rush of frightened cattle ended with a few seconds of excitement for the drovers and watchers.
Ana sat on the curb. She held her hand on the cut on her head. Luis Móntez stood next to Ana, and next to him was a tall dark Mexican who looked like a cop.
I sat down with Ana and hugged her around the shoulders.
“He saved me,” she said. She pointed at the cop.
I stood up and looked at Luis. “We saw Ana on the street, getting shoved around by those cows,” he said. “This guy jumped in and pulled her to safety.” Luis pointed at Fulgencio Batista. “He turned one of the animals away by swatting him on the nose,” Luis continued. “I never saw anything quite like that. It was over before I knew what was happening.”
Batista extended his hand. I shook it, introduced myself. “You’ve already met Ana.” I said.
He stared at the sitting Ana. “In a manner of speaking. El placer es mío.”
Luis, Batista and I made small talk while Ana sat and watched the rest of the parade. Batista ate a hot dog he bought from a corner vendor. I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the parade.
The parade ended and the crowd broke up. Street cleaning machines followed the cowboys, cowgirls, horses and cows.
Ana stood up. She hugged Batista, kissed him on his scar. “Muchísimas gracias,” she said. That’s the first time I heard her speak Spanish.
24 [Luis]
es que la vecina me puso el dedo
Batista’s quick thinking impressed me. He saved Ana from injury, at the least, and he did it without real violence to the steer. He was chivalrous, bold and kind to spooked animals. The guy was a saint—a saint with a scarred face.
We made sure Ana was okay, then we walked back to my office, none of us saying much.
We sat at the round conference table. The Mexican cop, the Chicana cop, the ex-con and me, the lawyer. Rosa worked at her desk, typing more goodbye letters for clients. We held cups of coffee.
“I don’t get it,” Gus said. “This guy, Sam or Paco, or whatever. Why Denver? Compared to the money from working with cartels and human traffickers, drug smuggling, all of it—the quarter of a million is peanuts. You think he’d come all this way for that?”
“The money he’s chasing is more than that,” Batista answered. “From what Luis told me, the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is what a man named Valdez was after. But the information is that was only part of the money. There is more, much more.”
“How much are we talking about?” Ana said. She had recovered nicely, with only a small Band-Aid on her forehead. No one would know from looking at her that an hour before, she’d almost been run over by a mad cow.
Batista cleared his throat. “It has to be in the millions. The amounts of money that these criminals operate with, and hide away, are amazing, unbelievable.”
Gus smiled at me. I looked away. I didn’t like that smile.
“These men and women operate like independent countries with their own armies, laws and legal system. They have the money to do as they please. Men like Contreras may not be completely inside a cartel, but they work very close, and they, too, make millions.”
“And Valdez knew only about the quarter million? Maybe that money was legit, from the import business?” I asked.
Batista slowly shook his head. “I doubt that this man and anyone working with him ever made any honest money.”
“He ran a bar, here in Denver,” Gus said.
“A cover for laundering some of the money,” Batista said. “There’s so much, they have to invent ways to use it.”
“This money’s not in a bank somewhere offshore?” Gus asked. “Or Switzerland?”
Batista grinned. “Like on American TV? If Contreras does what so many of the others do, the money’s stacked in a warehouse or buried in the desert, or a cave. Around here, down a mineshaft. They can’t use all that they get but they continue to accumulate it.”
Ana grabbed Gus’ hand. “Then he must know where it is. Why would he bother with Luis or any of us?”
“That may be the reality,” Batista said. “Which means he’s already retrieved the money and may be gone. Or . . .”
“What?” Ana said.
“Or María or Valdez moved it,” Gus said. “And Contreras might think that María, or Valdez, told Luis about it
.”
“Well, he’d be wrong,” I said. “No one told me anything about a cache of millions hidden somewhere in Colorado. María denied knowing anything about the money. And Valdez insisted she had it. Neither of them seemed to know where the money was.”
Gus and Ana drank coffee. Batista stood up. “I have to move around. Do something,” he said.
“María could have lied to you, Luis,” Gus said. “We’ve talked about that. She played out her role of ex-wife in the dark to throw off Valdez. She hired a lawyer to help her, to make her play more on the level. Valdez might have fallen for it, but he was planning to talk with you. Then he was killed.”
“Yeah, and she was around when he was killed,” I said. “But that involved Sam, too.”
“She tried to fool Sam. Probably fingered Valdez. Laid it all on him. Said he had the money. Set him up for Sam, but Valdez didn’t talk. Sam lost his patience. They tried to clean it up with the fire, then he got rid of the body.”
“That makes sense,” Ana said.
“And after Valdez died, and Sam had time to think about it, he turned his attention to his ex-wife,” Gus added. “That’s why she was half-dead when she reappeared.”
“He put her through hell to get to his money,” I said. “Whatever he did to her, it must have contributed to her heart attack, to her dying in my office.”
“But she didn’t talk either?” Ana asked. “Was she that tough?”
“We don’t really know,” I said. “It’s all guesswork. Only Sam knows what happened.”
The inference that María might have resisted Contreras’ torture agitated Batista.
“Contreras would know how to make anyone talk. That’s a certainty. Valdez died because he didn’t know anything about the missing money. He couldn’t satisfy Contreras. He died because he chose the wrong partner for his business.”
“And María?” I asked.
“An interesting woman, obviously. Somehow she escaped Sam. By returning here, to this lawyer’s office, I believe she escaped before she gave in and before she was forced to reveal whatever she knew about the money. She still needed Luis. If she talked, he would have killed her since he didn’t need her anymore. But from what you say, she wasn’t above sacrificing this Valdez person.”