by Glenn Trust
“Yes.” He stood for a moment before turning with a sigh. “There is business to settle. Unfortunate on a day such as this.”
“Unfortunate but necessary,” Alejandro Garza said, nodding.
Garza had been with the jefe from the beginning, growing up with him on the streets of Morelia. Cara de Bebé—Baby Face as Elizondo was known in those days for his smooth child-like countenance—had been the brains, the innovator behind their schemes.
Serious, grave even, Alejandro had been the enforcer, executing Bebé’s will without passion. Feared by their underworld competitors, his unalterable dedication to his assignments was an awesome thing to see. For those who were the subjects of his work, it was terrifying.
“Yes, my friend. You are correct as usual. Let us tend to this business now while the day is young. Then we can put it away from us.”
They walked through the mansion, passing through the kitchen where Elizondo’s three children sat eating their breakfast. His wife stood at the stove preparing tortillas, eggs, and rice. Even now, she insisted on making the meals for the children although they had wealth enough to hire a hundred cooks if they desired.
“Papi! Eat with us,” his oldest daughter called out, smiling over a plate and around the school books stacked beside it.
Elizondo kissed his wife, Sofia, on the cheek. She smiled as he nuzzled her for a moment and continued cooking. He turned to the table and kissed each of the children on the forehead, giving each round face a tender pat on the cheek.
“I can’t just now, my loves. I must attend to business.”
“You always have business,” Rosa the youngest pouted. She pointed at Alejandro. “Especially when he is here.”
“You must not be rude to Alejandro, Rosa.” Elizondo spoke softly and leaned over to kiss her again on the forehead. “Tio—Uncle—Alejandro is our good friend and protector.”
Alejandro watched the exchange without expression or comment.
“Now, say you are sorry,” Elizondo said, giving her a stern look.
“I’m sorry, Tio Alejandro,” the little girl whispered, looking at her plate.
“Está bien pequeño.” It’s fine little one.
Alejandro relented with one of his rare smiles, if the slight twitching of his cheek could be called a smile. Elizondo noted that only the children had the ability to evoke such a response from his solemn friend and partner.
“Now we must go.”
The two men strode through the room to the front door and descended the steps to the expansive yard. Alejandro led the way across the lawn to a small outbuilding perched on the side of the bluff, overlooking the ocean. Stuccoed and painted to match the house, flowers and trees surrounded it. A bird sang in the branches as they passed. Alejandro led the way inside.
The interior was furnished as an office and served as the principal place that Alejandro inhabited when not with Bebé. Descending a circular iron staircase, they came to a room nestled in the side of the hillside. One wall, entirely of glass, offered a dramatic view of the ocean below. In front of the window was a chair. Three men stood around the chair watching the man seated there.
He looked up, wide-eyed, as Elizondo and Alejandro approached. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face, leaving a damp wet ring around the collar of his floral print Hawaiian shirt.
Elizondo stood for a moment before the wall of windows, contemplating the day. He truly was a man at peace with his world. It was a shame they had such work to do this day, he thought.
He shrugged and turned, with a sigh, like a man faced with an unpleasant but necessary chore.
“I understand there is a problem,” Bebé said.
6.
Interrogation
“¿De donde eres?” Where are you from?
The Border Patrol officer spoke perfect Mexican Spanish without a hint of the accent most picked up learning Spanish in the Yaqui schools.
“I thought you would know that,” Ernesto said, shrugging his shoulders. “Mexico, of course.”
“You are right. My question was not specific enough.” The officer smiled. The DEA agent seated beside her did not. “Where is your village, abuelo—grandfather?” the officer asked mildly, showing respect for the old man.
The DEA agent’s face remained fixed in a scowl. This particular old man had been caught trying to smuggle a truckload of narcotics across the border.
“Ah, my village.” Ernesto nodded. “And how do you know that I am not from a large city?”
Annoyed, the DEA agent leaned across the table, speaking in broken Spanish. “Stop fucking around and start talking.” He turned to the Border Patrol officer serving as translator. “Tell him.”
“¿Qué?” Ernesto smiled at the drug enforcement agent.
“He warns you to cooperate … to answer our questions,” the Border Patrol officer replied.
She peered into his eyes, seeing the relaxed confidence there, not intimidated by his arrest or the bad-tempered DEA agent. There was something else in those eyes. Behind the crinkled folds of his eyelids, the officer detected amusement. The interrogation would be a game for him.
She shook her head, a smile creeping across her face at the mirth in those old eyes. Aware that the DEA agent’s eyes were fixed on her, she forced the smile away.
“You should cooperate, abuleo. They can make things very difficult for you.”
“Difficult.” Ernesto shrugged, considering the word. “It is a relative thing, what is difficult and what is not. Still, if he must have an answer …” He turned his eyes on the DEA agent and shrugged. “I suppose it is not important. Tell him I am from a small village … Cupuán del Río, in Michoacán.”
The questioning continued for four hours. Ernesto spoke at length, providing the same answers to the same questions the DEA agent repeated over and over, hoping to trip him up. By the time it ended, he had spoken many words but said almost nothing.
“How long have you worked for Los Salvajes?”
“I don’t know any salvajes. I drive a truck. That is all.”
“Where did you pick up your load?”
“They had already loaded the truck when I got into it.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you get into the truck?”
“I can’t remember. I am old, you see, and forgetful.”
“Why did the man with you carry a rifle?”
“I was not aware he had a weapon until you killed him. Shame on you for that. Felipe was just a boy.”
“Are there other ranchers like Sam Bergen, working with the cartel to smuggle drugs?”
“I don’t know any ranchers’ I drove the truck, and the man opened the gate. I never saw him before.”
“How did you come to drive this truck full of illegal narcotics? Who hired you?”
“I have always driven trucks. People call me to drive, they pay me, I put the money in my pocket. My wife is happy. I have no idea who they are or what is in the truck.”
“No idea?”
“Nada.”
By the end of the interview, he had chatted about life in his village and Michoacán. They knew details about his relationship with his wife and that they were childless. They learned that the lack of children had haunted Ernesto and his wife for many years, but the pain had passed and they had made peace with their bareness as they aged.
They learned much about Ernesto’s personal life. They learned nothing about smuggling drugs across the border, at least nothing they didn’t already know, or that would aid in the case against the Los Salvajes cartel.
“And you, daughter?” He said to the Border Patrol officer. “How long have you lived here, just over the border from your homeland?”
She smiled. “This is my homeland. I was born here.”
“Then your parents came from Mexico?”
“My grandparents.”
He looked at the name tag on her uniform. “Garcia … I have known people of that name in Michoac
án. Perhaps I knew your grandfather before he came here.”
“Perhaps.” She nodded and rose. “Now you must go, grandfather. I think you will not see Michoacán for some time.”
They escorted Ernesto to a holding cell in the local county jail, to await transport to a federal processing center. He stretched out on the bunk, hands behind his head, and a smile on his face, certain he had done or said nothing that would help the gringos. The young Border Patrol officer had a pretty smile, and he had made sure not to let her trick him with that smile into saying something he should not.
By Mexican investigative standards, the interrogation had been mild. He had not been beaten or threatened. His bones were not broken, and his few remaining teeth were all intact.
Filled with a sense of peace, Ernesto drifted off to sleep warmed by the thought he would return to his village one day to live out the rest of his life with his wife. The pension that Bebé provided them would be more than enough to make them comfortable in the quiet years of their old age, away from border crossings and trucks full of drugs.
7.
Childhood—1978
“I hate him.”
John Fitzhugh Sole, named for his grandfathers, sat on the floor of the tiny house outside Cassit Pass with a shoebox full of old photos on his lap. He lifted one for his mother to see and repeated, “I hate him.”
“Don’t talk like that, John.” Clara knelt beside him and took the snapshot of a young man in uniform from his hand. It was Monty, on leave from basic training just before shipping out to Viet Nam. “He is your father. You can’t hate your father.”
“Why not?” The boy’s brow wrinkled like an old man’s, his eyes steady and defiant.
“Because he gave you life. You wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t your father.”
The wrinkled brow spread downward into a frown at this idea. The concept that his existence was reliant upon the man in the picture was a conundrum. He considered it for a moment and shook his head, decision made.
“I’d be here,” he said with certainty, pointing at the photo. “I’m here now. He’s not.” He nodded to put emphasis on his decision, thus closing the discussion of his existence. “I’d be here.”
“Maybe you would.” Clara smiled. “Still, he is your father. You don’t hate him.”
“I do.” Young John folded his arms to indicate his mind was made up on the matter.
Clara sighed and gathered up the box of photos to put it back on the bookshelf. She looked down at the smiling face of the soldier. Her heart flopped in her chest the way it always did when she thought of him as he was then, before the war took him away from her.
She closed the box and turned back to her son, sprawled out on the floor now, his face in a coloring book, scribbling furiously with a red crayon. They were too much alike, he and his father, she thought, far older than their years.
From his first moments, little John Sole was an old soul. Birthing him alone in this very house, she held him to her breast and looked into his eyes. Those eyes had looked back at her, not as a baby, but like an old man examining this strange creature that had thrust him from the comfort and security of her womb. Even the doctor who came afterward said he had the eyes of an old man.
Whether he wanted to believe it or not, he was like his father in that respect, feeling things, sensing things in a way far beyond his years. As she watched him, the ache built up inside, wishing that Monty was there now to see his son grow.
But he wasn’t. Monty had returned from his walk in the mountains hours after his son was born. He looked at the baby and called for Clara’s parents to come to the house. Then he took the baby from her arms and sat, gazing into tiny John’s old eyes. Something passed between them at that moment. Monty’s eyes softened. A single tear formed and trickled down his cheek.
Then he handed the boy back to Clara, stood up and walked out the front door. He never returned.
For months, Clara started at every sound. Wind fluttering against the window pane or the floorboards creaking in the cold had her on her feet peering out the window. She prayed for his return.
His reasons for leaving lay hidden in the depths of his soul, far beyond her discovering, but she knew in her heart they were not malicious. Monty was the love of her life.
8.
Call Me Bebé
Juan Manuel Elizondo turned from the bank of windows to face the man sweating in the chair. He nodded at the three guards who stepped back several paces.
“So we have a problem,” he repeated to the trembling man in the floral shirt.
“No … no problem, Bebé.” The man shook his head in great, wide arcs so that the drops of sweat spiraling down his face were flung to the floor with the movement. “I swear to you. This is just a temporary situation.”
“Ah, temporary.” Elizondo nodded seriously. “And yet, it is two months now since a full shipment has made it across the border.”
“It is the North Americans!” The man’s hands moved in spasmodic gyrations in front of his face as he explained. “The goddamned gringos! They have learned our methods.” He leaned forward, glancing from side to side, before continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. “There is a spy. There must be … someone inside who tells them of our movements … when the shipments will cross the border. That is why the gringos are there when we cross, waiting for our trucks.” He shook his head to show his frustration with the damned Yanquis up north. “They know where we will be, sometimes before I know it. I tell you, there must be a spy.” He raised his shoulders high in a dramatic shrug to show his frustration. “I am as unhappy about this as you, Bebé. Believe me, I am.” He rammed his right fist into his left palm. “When I find the spy, I promise you he will pay, with his life!”
Elizondo listened in silence to the man’s sweaty tirade. When he finished speaking, eyes wide and pleading for the jefe to understand his dilemma, Elizondo turned back to the bank of windows.
“Join me here, Miguel.”
Miguel Diaz had known Bebé almost as long as Alejandro Garza. The trucking company he inherited from his father had opened a path into the North American illegal drug markets. Over time, Diaz had taken on more responsibility, not only providing trucks for shipments but developing new clandestine methods of moving the drugs across the border.
He had been an important part of the Los Salvajes drug cartel. As often happens, his importance had made him feel he was indispensable. He was not.
Miguel gave a glance over his shoulder at the three guards who stood nearby. Expressionless and immobile, their eyes betrayed no emotion, only a complete indifference to what was happening. A chill running down his spine, he rose from the chair to join Elizondo at the windows.
“It is a magnificent day, don’t you think, Miguel?”
The aqua blue waters of the harbor below and the Pacific Ocean beyond glittered under the morning sun. The surrounding hillsides moved and fluttered with life. A crested caracara, winged past the windows, its black cap over a white throat and orange nose stood out in vivid contrast against the backdrop of the sea.
“Look at him go!” Elizondo exclaimed with obvious pleasure. “He is heading to the water to find a meal.” Hands clasped behind his back as he watched the bird drop towards the shoreline below, he continued in a thoughtful tone. “This one is more a scavenger than a hunter, the caracara. He steals from other birds … more industrious birds … he takes for himself what others have worked for.”
“I am not familiar with birds,” Miguel whispered, a sense of dread swelling in his chest, his heart racing and turning flips that beat against his rib cage.
“Really? That’s a pity.” Elizondo continued. “And yet, you have much in common … you and the caracara.
“Bebé, I haven’t …”
“Don’t call me that,” Elizondo said mildly. “My friends call me Bebé.”
“But … I am your friend … I swear it!”
“My friends do not steal from me.”
“Ne
ver! I swear I would never …”
“Please, Miguel. Don’t speak to me as if I were a fool … your fool.” Elizondo turned to face Miguel. “You think we don’t know what you do? We have our sources. We can learn anything about you … everything about you.” He shook his head, annoyed. “Yes, we are aware of the account in the Banco Mercantil del Norte, the one under your wife’s name. The last we checked there were over four million U.S. dollars there.”
Sweat soaked through his floral shirt. Miguel’s body shook with violent spasms as if some invisible hand gripped his innards.
“I tell you, there is a traitor … the money in the bank is my wife’s she inherited it from …”
“Who? Her father who worked at the Chevrolet plant in Ramos Arizpe until he died of lung cancer?” Elizondo shook his head and smiled. “I don’t think the Americans pay so well as that.”
“Jefe, yes.” Miguel nodded rapidly, tears flowing down his cheeks now. “Yes, yes … I took the money. There, I said it.” He looked at Elizondo, his red, tear-filled eyes pleading. “Please. I beg you to understand. Our business is very uncertain. I only wanted to make sure that there was something for my wife and children if I can no longer provide. There is so much money, and I only took a little.”
Elizondo laughed. “I admire your concept of a little, Miguel.”
“You must believe me!” Miguel’s voice rose to a shriek, his brain unable to accept the inevitable. “There is a spy … a traitor! We will find him!”
“If there is a traitor, you should have found him already, just as we found the traitor in our midst.”
“Please,” Miguel sobbed.
“By the way, my contacts closed the account. They have transferred the money to an account of mine in the Cayman Islands. It was all very legal, your signature and passcodes verifying the transaction.” Elizondo smiled. “You should understand that your wife and children will never see a peso of the money. I fear they may spend the rest of their lives destitute.” He shook his head sadly. “You have acted stupidly, Miguel.”