by Don Winslow
Pablo drives out to Las Misiones, the new shopping mall across from the U.S. consulate, and walks the polished marble floors and new “fitness center” and then stands outside the new twelve-screen IMAX theater to ask people their opinion of the upcoming election. Not surprisingly, the mall-goers are overwhelmingly PAN or PRI.
This is the “new Juárez,” Pablo thinks—suburban, affluent, and soulless just like its counterpart across the river. But this is what we aspire to be, Pablo thinks. We took all that “new money” and built a faux U.S. He’s leaving the mall when Ramón walks up to him.
“Hola, ’mano.”
“Ramón. Hi. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. You sick, ’mano? You’re sweating like a pig.”
“No, I’m good.”
“We have a job for you.”
“You know I can’t write—”
“No one’s asking you to write shit,” Ramón says. “Some people at the end of the alphabet are very angry at this morning’s blog post. You’re going to tell us who El Niño Salvaje is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.” Ramón pulls out his cell phone and shows Pablo a picture of Mateo standing outside his school in Mexico City. “Cute hijo you got.”
“You fucking son of a bitch.”
“Careful, ’mano. Watch your mouth.” Ramón puts the phone back in his pocket. “Their computer what-do-you-call-them, geeks, say the blog comes out of Juárez. That puts a lot of pressure on me, ’mano. So I have to put a lot of pressure on you. It’s not you, is it? Tell me it’s not you, Pablo.”
“It’s not,” Pablo says.
“That’s good,” Ramón says. “I’m relieved. But it has to be someone you know. Some fucking reporter.”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“I didn’t say you know,” Ramón snaps. “I said it’s someone you know. There’s a difference—pay attention. You find out, Pablo, and you tell me. If you don’t, we’re not going to hurt you first, you understand? You’ll get the pictures on your phone. Hey, maybe El Niño will put them up on the blog.”
Pablo is literally speechless with fear.
“Tell me you understand,” Ramón says.
Pablo croaks, “I understand.”
“Good,” Ramón says. He lays his hand on Pablo’s shoulder. “ ’Mano, I don’t want to hurt your kid. It’s the last thing I want to do. So don’t make me, okay? A week, ten days, I want to hear something from you. A name.”
He walks away.
The terror runs through Pablo like an icy stream.
He has to stop shaking.
Pablo has two whiskeys at San Martín, and then steps outside to call Victoria. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. About that vacation. Could you fly with Mateo to El Paso and I’ll meet you there?”
“I suppose, but why?”
“I was thinking you and Ernesto should come,” Pablo says. “We could have dinner. I should get to know him, don’t you think? If he’s going to be Mateo’s stepfather.”
If the narcos can’t lay their hands on Mateo, Pablo thinks, they’ll go after Victoria. He has to get her out of the country and then find a way of explaining to her that she can’t go back.
Not for a while.
Not like you.
You can’t ever come back.
“Pablo, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Pablo says. “You’re always after me to be more mature, I’m trying to be more mature.”
“All right.”
“I’m thinking next week.”
“Next week?” Victoria says. “Are you joking? The election?”
“We’re talking one day, Victoria.”
“The soonest I could do this,” Victoria says, “is two days after. And you just can’t uproot Mateo all of a sudden. He has play dates, tutoring…”
“Let’s don’t argue, okay?” Pablo asks. “Please, Victoria, I need you to make this happen.”
“All right.” She sighs.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Pablo clicks off and goes home. Ana is already there, sitting on the back step drinking wine and smoking a cigarette. He sits down next to her. “Listen, I’m taking Mateo on a little trip.”
“That’s wonderful,” Ana says. “Where are you going?”
“Across the river,” Pablo says, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Do some theme parks in El Paso, but then we’re going camping in Big Bend.”
“Sounds nice.”
“You want to come with us?”
“When is it?”
“Next week.”
Ana laughs. “There’s this little thing, the election…”
“After the election.”
“I’ll be writing follow-ups, analysis…”
“There’s also this thing called the Internet,” Pablo says. “You could write your stories from the road. Might be kind of fun.”
Ana looks at him curiously, her antennae up and quivering. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’d just like to have you with us.”
“I don’t know…”
“What?”
“Is Mateo ready for that?”
“He’s known you all his life,” Pablo says.
“As his ‘Tía Ana,’ ” she answers. “Not as his father’s girlfriend. That’s a lot to get used to.”
“Mateo’s getting used to a lot of new things,” Pablo says. “Ernesto, for starters.”
Ana asks, “Are you just trying to get even with Victoria?”
“That would be pretty childish.”
“Yeah, that eliminates that possibility.” She sips her wine and sets the glass down. “Pablo, if this is your way of trying to ‘take things to the next level’…”
“I’m talking about a few nights camping,” Pablo says. “Flies, mosquitoes, lousy food cooked badly over an ineptly built fire, smoke in your eyes, sand in your crotch—”
“You make it sound so attractive, how can I refuse?”
“Then you’ll come?”
“I’ll think about it,” Ana says.
Come with me, Pablo thinks.
Please, Ana. Cross the river with me.
—
Pablo puts on the best clothes he owns—a collared blue shirt, relatively clean jeans, and a “travel” sports coat that was not supposed to wrinkle but has, and goes to the U.S. consulate the next morning. He feels like a traitor, plotting his escape to the United States, as so many others have done, as so many others have had to do.
The consular official he finally sees is not particularly helpful. “You have to be physically present in the United States to apply for an asylum visa. You have a seventy-two-hour guest visa anyway. Once there, you can apply for asylum. If it’s not granted, you can apply for defensive asylum, show cause why you shouldn’t be sent back. If you have a well-founded fear that you’re going to be persecuted—”
“I do.”
“On the grounds of ethnicity, religion, or political opinion—”
“I’m a journalist”—Pablo sighs, repeating himself—“and I feel that I’m under threat. Certainly you’re aware that other journalists have been—”
“Are you under a specific threat?” the official asks. “Or just a general sort of threat?”
“A ‘general threat’?”
“Have you been specifically threatened,” the official says impatiently. “Has a specific person made an explicit threat on your life? Or do you just feel generally threatened as a journalist?”
“Is there a difference?”
“There’s a very big difference,” the official says. “Just a general feeling that you might be killed is not enough for us to issue asylum. On the other hand, if you’re under an explicit threat—”
“I am.”
“What is it?”
“Do you need to know?” Pablo asks.
“If we’re going to consider giving you asylum, yes.” The official pushes some papers across the
desk. “Here’s the form they’d give you in the U.S. Write down the nature of the threat, the date of the threat, the individual issuing the threat, why you consider the threat to be serious…”
“Is there any way that you can expedite this?”
“Yes, by your filling out the paperwork.”
“I need it for another person as well,” Pablo says.
“Immediate family?”
“No.”
“Then that person will have to go in on his or her own.”
“His or her own,” Pablo repeats.
“Yes.”
“We really don’t have a lot of time here.”
“Then…”
“You understand that they’re going to kill us.”
“I’m doing the best I can for you, Mr. Mora.”
“Thank you.”
Pablo walks out of the consulate and sits in the fronterizo. The “nature of the threat.” What am I supposed to write? They are going to kill me because…
His phone rings.
“You thinking about running, you fat fuck?” Ramón says.
“What do you mean?”
“You went to the consulate?” Ramón asks. “You don’t think we watch who goes in and out of there? We have halcones everywhere. Hey, you want to see a live video feed of your kid? I got one.”
“No. Shit. I’m doing a story.”
“What kind of a story?”
“You know,” Pablo says, forcing himself to sound calm. “Every few months we track the immigration numbers. See how many people are leaving Juárez. So I check in with the U.S. consulate. That’s all.”
There’s a long silence, then Ramón says, “You made any progress? On that other thing?”
“A little. Not much. I mean—”
“That’s the story you should be working on.”
—
Pablo sits at his desk and pounds out his story about voting trends.
He feels like he’s walking underwater—every keystroke is like swinging a hammer, and he makes typo after typo.
“What’s with you today?” Ana asks.
“Nothing. What do you mean?”
“You seem out of it.”
“Hungover,” Pablo says.
Ana doesn’t buy it. Pablo didn’t have that much to drink last night, and he’s probably better at writing with a hangover than without one. And he’s doing very un-Pablo-like things, like asking for more out of their relationship. Pablo is not a “more” person—he’s usually looking for “less.”
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” Pablo says. “Have you thought about the camping trip?”
“I’m still thinking.”
“Could you think a little faster?” Pablo asks. “I have arrangements to make.”
“Like how many s’mores?”
“Camping permits,” Pablo says. “How many people.”
“Oh. I’ll let you know this afternoon.”
She goes back to her desk and goes online and quickly finds out that Big Bend National Park doesn’t require individual camping permits.
Why would Pablo lie about something like that? Unless he’s just wrong about it. Unlikely—Pablo is personally sloppy but professionally immaculate. He checks his facts. One thing you can never say about Pablo is that he gets his stories wrong.
Ana logs on to Esta Vida.
The featured article is “Who Picked the Winner in Juárez?” and asks the question whether the PAN government, through the army and federal police, cooperated with the Sinaloa cartel to help Barrera control Juárez and the valley. “Is the government biased,” Wild Child asks, “or just singularly inept at arresting people from Sinaloa?”
It’s exactly what they’re all thinking and exactly the kind of story that Óscar won’t let them write anymore.
The next story is even more provocative, addressing the threats that Wild Child received about running photos of dead Zetas. “Don’t Dish It Out If You Can’t Take It” reprints the photos, along with photos and vid-clips that the Zetas have put out on websites.
She glances over at Pablo, who is ham-handedly beating out his article.
What does he know about this?
—
Chuy looks at the Bridge of Dreams.
All he would have to do is walk across. He’d be in El Paso, true, not Laredo, but it would be only a bus ride home.
Home.
The word has almost no meaning.
Chuy hasn’t been home in six years. Hasn’t talked to his family, doesn’t even know if they still live in the same house. Or even if they’re alive. If they know he’s alive, if they even care.
After killing the woman police, his estaca got orders to fade into the city. They live in a safe house in the center of town so they can keep an eye on the newspaper office. Chuy doesn’t know why, he doesn’t care. Forty has a mission for them, but Chuy has a mission of his own.
Which is all that keeps him from walking across the Bridge of Dreams.
—
Eddie Ruiz is already back in Texas.
But he’s thinking about Mexico.
Sitting in his apartment on Fort Bliss, his babysitters playing cards at the kitchen table, he sips on a cold Dos Equis as he watches Univisión coverage of the elections.
Eddie figures he has a dog in that fight.
Face it, man, he tells himself, your chips are stacked with PAN. All the valuable information you have is on PAN politicians and their police. If PAN loses, like the analysts on TV are predicting, your value goes way down. The people you’re going to rat out are going to be gone anyway.
Prosecutors get hard-ons for corrupt politicians who are in office. Once they’re out their appeal fades like an old girlfriend you’re tired of tapping. No one writes headlines about politicians who are finished, and prosecutors love headlines like goats love garbage.
Eddie figures he’s looking at a wilting dick.
The negotiations with the prosecutors have dragged on for months. Eddie’s is a good poker player who knew he was holding face cards and played them well. He was in no hurry because he knew he was looking at fifteen-to-thirty and would get credit for time served.
Eddie just sat tight.
Because, what the fuck, right? Let the suits argue as long as they want.
Sit here or sit somewhere else.
The AG came back with an offer of fifteen years, seizure of Eddie’s personal assets (Eddie don’t give a shit because everything is in his wives’ names anyway), and a $10 million fine (serious money but not serious money). Eddie’s lawyer countered with twelve years, seizure, and $7 million.
Eddie’s going to take it. He’ll be at least four years testifying, with time credited. That left six, but it was really four, federal time. By the time he got to prison, he’d be old news in the narco-world. Then into the program, a whole new life ahead of him, selling aluminum siding in Scottsdale or something.
But that deal still has to be approved by a judge at the time of sentencing, and the judge might get buyer’s remorse if he sees that what he’s purchasing is a collection of out-of-office politicians and retired (or dead) cops.
I’m a used car, Eddie thinks.
As election day drags it’s like that old song, “Fast Women and Slow Horses.” The Ken doll candidate from PRI is in the lead, closely followed by the old whiner from PRD, and PAN…that filly is bringing up the rear.
You might as well just rip up your ticket, Eddie thinks, you ain’t goin’ to the window to collect.
Then Art freakin’ Keller walks through the door.
And makes Eddie an offer he can’t refuse.
—
Adán walks away from the television.
It’s over.
At least as far as PAN is concerned.
Neither Peña Nieto nor López Obrador is going to win. There will be the routine accusations of voter fraud, the usual protest marches, and then the electoral officials will do the intelligent thing and install Peñ
a Nieto as the winner.
The election is not a disappointment, as he had expected that PAN would lose. Peña Nieto won’t throw the North Americans out, but he will neutralize them. Which would have been a dream just a few months ago, but now is a problem in that they’re allies in his war against the Zetas.
All the new government wants is peace, an end to the violence, Adán thinks. It will accept whatever arrangement we make in order to achieve peace and order. It will accept a Sinaloa-Zeta division of the plazas, it will accept a Sinaloa victory, it will accept a Zeta victory.
It only wants a pax narcotica.
Five months, Adán thinks.
We have five months until the new president takes office.
One hundred and fifty days to destroy Ochoa. Can it be done? Or is Nacho right, should we try to make peace?
It’s a hard calculation. So tempting to push for victory. Even now the Zetas are in the process of losing their deal with ’Ndrangheta, in fact, losing all of Europe. The prince of darkness himself, Arturo Keller, personally saw to it, and the Zetas waltzed into his trap that will also set the North American antiterrorist apparatus against them.
Then again, a hundred things could go wrong.
Ochoa still has the upper hand in Guatemala.
He has thousands of fighters. He is without morals, restraint, or scruples—the truly ruthless man.
And that is the hell of all this, Adán thinks.
The unvarnished truth is that Mexico would be better off with you, rather than under the Zetas. You would run a business that didn’t touch the ordinary person’s ordinary life; Ochoa would preside over a reign of terror.
The current government understands this, the future one thinks like a goat bleating “just make it stop.”
“Where are you going?” Eva asks him.
For some reason, she is glued to the elections, her attempt, Adán thinks, to display that she’s a serious person with a real interest in current affairs. It’s part of her new maturity campaign. Eva has adopted the “concerned young parent” role. Now she reads—articles about early education, organic nutrition and climate change, global warming and rising sea levels.
“What kind of a world,” she has asked Adán several times, “will our children grow up in?”