“Ah, sí,” replied Paco. “All of the dons you reached out to have responded. All expressed frustration with shipping across the Caribbean. The profits do not keep up with the losses. However, most didn’t have the capital to move in a new direction—yet.
“There was one, though, who was very excited and wished to move quickly. He heads a cartel in Cartagena called the Clan de Cartagena. He would like to meet with you in person sometime soon. He says he has procured a narco sub recently that he’d like to move a large shipment of product with, but cannot afford another loss. He says he can get it to the Pacific side of his country, but it will need a discreet refueling stop somewhere along the Costa Rican coast. He says that assuming we do have a suitable island available as you said, he would like to invest in developing it with us so he doesn’t have to pay the inflated fuel prices and tributes that other dons have to pay at more established waystations.”
Monti squinted his eyes with skepticism. “And you believe this fairy tale?”
“It was contained in an email that came through our secure network,” replied Paco.
“The one the DEA has hacked, or the one that they haven’t hacked—yet?”
“The new one, Papa. As far as we know, it’s not even on their radar yet.”
Monti harrumphed and made like he was about to leave.
“Think about it, Papa. This could be our big break, a way to get the kind of money we’d need to put our plans in motion and lift our whole village out of poverty. Isn’t that why you contacted the Colombians in the first place?”
Monti looked away and longed to walk out the door. Yes, this had been why he’d contacted the Colombians, but he had no idea that he’d be taken seriously or responded to so soon. He had no specific plan; he hadn’t even started to figure out what the costs might be, and then there was the problem of the island itself.
“Gracias, Paco,” he mumbled. “I shall be thinking about this while I’m out on my rounds today.” He headed for the door.
“Don’t think too long,” admonished Paco. “If we really want to do this, it’s not an offer that we can afford to refuse. He’ll simply go somewhere else.”
Frustrated, Monti whirled around. “If this man and his clan are not legitimate, or if they’re treacherous jackals like those we left in Mexico, it is an offer we must refuse! If this man is so impatient that he must be communicated with now, give him the numbers for our offshore deposit account. Tell him that if he wishes to do business with us, he will gladly deposit one—no, two million US dollars into our account within twenty-four hours or he can take his submarine and find another bathtub to play in! Only then will we talk.”
He then marched out the garage door as Paco called out something about the DEA to him. Monti didn’t want to hear it. It was time to be out greeting his friends.
He first stopped at the comparatively majestic church, its brick and adobe walls inlaid with stained-glass windows and its towering belfry dwarfing any of the village’s structures. He went in. A few devotees were kneeling in prayer as they always did in the morning. He saw the padre preparing the sacristy for the midday mass and tipped his old sombrero to the man. The priest gave him the sign of the cross in return. He saw that a bus was pulled up to the depot, and he greeted some of the visitors who got off, gave directions to some, smiled, and tried to be pleasant. Then he continued down the main beach road, stopping at the little hotels to give morning greetings to the managers and, more importantly, find out how many new guests had arrived overnight. He crossed the footbridge and checked in with Faviola, the manager at the Best Western Rio Palma Inn, the one real, norteamericano-style hotel that he’d attracted to his village—three stars in the American Automobile Association’s motel ratings and a rating of four and a half out of five stars from three hundred reviewers on the Tripadvisor website. Yes, they were full, she said. It was that time of year. And then he crossed back over the bridge and walked down the other side of the road, doing the same for all the shops and restaurants that were open so early.
And all the while, the wheels were turning in the back of his mind. He wasn’t thinking so much about this offer from some new Colombian cartel that he’d barely heard of. He’d find out soon enough if they were someone he wanted to deal with, and if so, he’d be the one dictating the terms, or he really would tell them to take their submarine and go play in someone else’s bathtub. A deal like this could be a boon to him, his family, and the village—the means to make many mutual dreams come true. But one must be careful and precise with these cartel people, or all the nightmares that he’d fled with his family from Mexico would soon revisit them here.
No, what was really occupying his mind now, as he came to the boat dock and noted the early-bird surfers and paddleboard riders making preparations for the day, was what Paco had reminded him of as he was leaving Paco’s garage. The DEA agent was due today. The single biggest reason why Monti and his family were able to operate their little cocaine-selling business was that the American DEA allowed them to. In exchange for being able to operate without harassment, he was expected to pass on useful, actionable intelligence about the more significant drug-smuggling operations that were going on along the coast. This arrangement had worked very well over time. When competitors had gotten too big, or someone new had tried to move in on his territory, Monti would merely inform the DEA, and his competition disappeared. But in order for it all to look legitimate and for him, Monti, to not be fingered as an informant by his partners in crime, the DEA had to periodically “raid” or “inspect” the village, “seize” product, “confiscate” weapons, “close down” a warehouse, sometimes even make arrests. He was always forewarned, of course, and he knew that no arrests were to be made this time, but he would be expected to allow weapons and small amounts of product to be seized, and, of course, to provide tips on whatever might be going on in the local drug world.
And he’d forgotten all about it.
Ah, the ravages of being over sixty, he lamented.
Gazing out at the boats along the dock and the beautiful island that held so much promise—and problems—for his future, he planted himself on a park-style bench that was one of several installed around the dock and caught his breath. Though he was still, at six feet two, a powerful man of considerable strength, much of his former muscle mass had unfortunately gone to his girth. It was the price of a safe and peaceful life, he always told himself with a wink.
He fished out his smartphone from the side pocket of his cargo shorts and punched a speed-dial number.
“Hola, Paco!” he said. “Sí, sí, I’d forgotten. Muchas gracias. Those handguns, we’ll let the DEA man find them, and the ammo as well. Throw in some of the other ammo, too. Put aside five—no, ten kilos of product, and I think I’ll let whoever it is confiscate a boat as well. Maybe we’ll put all the stuff in the boat. Ha! I’m a genius, I know. Gracias, my son. Buenos días.”
9
—
Though Abel knew whom he needed to see and precisely where that person would be, he decided that he’d play tourist on his trip down the dirt road toward Playa de Palma, stopping at a few places along the way to the town center and the beach. He pulled his Jeep off at the elementary school and went into the airy office. A chubby woman sat behind a counter at a messy desk, typing away on a computer while talking on the phone in Spanish. It was early in the morning, probably just an hour or so after school had started, so no children were out playing. Abel stood patiently. His eyes, trained for situational awareness, noted things like well-constructed walls, good glass in the windows, a suitable and sturdy desk (despite the mess) for the woman, modern communications equipment, and another smaller desk surrounded by shelves and functional file cabinets.
A welcoming yet efficient office space, he surmised, like any elementary school he’d been to in Iowa, maybe even more modern than some. Not exactly what he expected to find in a small village cut out of
the jungle along the Pacific coast of a country like Costa Rica. And that made him curious.
“Hola, señor,” said the woman, who was now standing in front of him behind the counter. “I am Leticia, the administrative assistant here at Palma School. What is it that I can do for you?”
Abel smiled at the professionally dressed woman who was perhaps a bit older than he, but not too much.
“Oh, hello,” he said cordially. “Actually, I’m here on business and was hoping you might be able to direct me. I was wondering—”
“Just follow the road, señor. Whatever your business is, you will get there if you just follow the road. It is the only way in, and the only way out,” replied Leticia. “Once you get to the town square, you can park your vehicle across from the bus depot and walk to wherever you want.”
“Well, that sounds simple enough,” said Abel. “This is quite the place you’ve got here.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it.” Leticia smiled. “Were you expecting something else?”
“Ah, well, no, I guess,” stammered Abel, “but I grew up in the US, and there were a lot of places that didn’t—”
“Have schools as nice as this one?” Leticia smiled knowingly. “Señor, we are just a tiny town in a tiny country where just about everything is lovely, especially our children. They are our highest priority, and we actually mean it when we say it.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear. I appreciate your help.” Abel gave the woman a crooked little smile, then left.
Wonder if they care about their kids as much in the next village down the road.
He smirked to himself as he drove away. Nice to see that Ruiz at least did one thing good with his drug money.
Continuing down the road, he noted the large frame house he’d seen with the metal garage out back where the footpath that started at the warehouse ended. He saw a tall, slim man in front of it, tending a flower bed. Abel stopped his Jeep and got out, and the man stopped his work. The two met by the side of the road.
“Hola,” said Abel. “My name’s Caleb Forrest, from Jacó. I’ve got an appointment this morning with an older fellow, Monti Ruiz, a bit taller than me, kind of heavyset. Do you know him?”
Paco chuckled quietly. “Señor, everyone in Playa de Palma knows Monti Ruiz.”
“Oh, really?” said Abel sardonically. “Well, maybe you could tell me where I might find him. He told me to meet him here, but didn’t give me an address or—”
“That’s because there aren’t really addresses here, señor, and Monti Ruiz is seldom in a building anyway, at least not during high season. You’ll find him sitting under a pavilion near the pier, probably with a few boxes of lollipops on a table beside him.”
“That sounds refreshing,” said Abel. “Why bother with an office in a place like this, right?”
“Exactly, señor,” replied Paco.
“Will we be able to talk in private somewhere? Our business is kind of confidential.”
“I’m sure he can make an accommodation for you, señor.” Paco smiled. “But I must also warn you, confidential things have a way of becoming, eh . . . how you say . . . un-confidential here in Playa de Palma.”
“I guess that’ll be his business then, not mine.” Abel turned back to his Jeep. “Thanks for your help,” he called, and then drove off.
A couple of minutes later, Abel found the parking lot just as Leticia had said (and he’d seen the day before) and found a spot that he hoped wouldn’t get blocked in. The area was made of crumbling old asphalt, and parking lines were faded, if they’d ever been there in the first place. All manner of vehicles were parked there—old beaters and pickups that went back to the seventies, muddied SUVs, small economy cars with roof racks for surfboards on top, even stylish sedans and clean SUVs that were most likely tourists’ rental cars. Abel locked the Jeep and headed out on foot toward the pier, which was not much more than a glorified dock. He was aware as he passed the bus depot and the “city hall” that there was another dirt road off to his left where shops and food stands were opening, and surfers were hitting the morning waves in earnest. Joggers and walkers of all ages could be seen, most certainly tourists out for their morning constitutionals. The smell of peppers and chilies was in the air along with the pungent smell of the ocean, whose crashing waves lent an irresistible sort of white noise to the whole scene—but Abel didn’t take any of it in.
He was focused on the large man under the cloth pavilion who sat in an extra-large outdoor chair with several other beach chairs strewn around him at the head of the pier. His back was turned to Abel, and Abel figured that the man was probably messing around with a device, like everyone else these days. He was about to call out Monti’s name when the man suddenly spun his chair around and faced Abel with a jolly smile that would make him look like Santa Claus if he had a white beard and wasn’t wearing a flowery Hawaiian shirt. He even had a small child in his lap. The child held a book as if he’d been reading to the big man. Abel was so genuinely surprised that he just stood there in the sand.
“Caleb Forrest of the DEA,” announced Monti in his big, jovial voice. “Welcome to Playa de Palma. Don’t look so surprised. Your presence precedes you, especially when—”
“It wasn’t that,” said Abel as he sauntered forward. “I knew you’d know I was here when I first pulled up to the school and had that nice chat with Leticia, probably a relative, right?”
“Ah, sí. You’re very perceptive,” replied Monti.
“It was just a guess. I know news travels faster than the birds in a place like this. I was just surprised that you had a kid reading to you in your lap instead of some dinner-plate-sized smartphone that you were busy tweeting on.”
“Ah, the children are our life here,” said Monti.
“So I’ve heard,” replied Abel as he moved to sit down and held out his hand. “Monti Ruiz, I presume?”
“You presume correctly. Please, have a seat.” The two men shook hands as Abel sat down.
***
Abel took a glass of cold lemonade from the little boy who had been reading to Monti Ruiz. He had scampered off to a restaurant across the street and was now handing it to him. It looked freshly squeezed and tasted as good as anything Abel had had to drink since coming to Costa Rica.
“It is Melissa’s own special recipe,” informed Monti, speaking of the restaurant’s proprietor as he, too, took a long drink. “She mixes the raw lemon juice with just a touch of mango juice, then adds sugar fresh from the cane that comes in from Jacó each week. There is nothing like it anywhere else.”
“Is that so?” remarked Abel. It really was great stuff, but there was more important business to get to. “So, Señor Ruiz, I’m here for a few days because the DEA has intel that there might be illegal drugs cached here awaiting shipment to Mexico and then to the US. It’s my job to confiscate any such contraband that I might find here, along with any illegal weapons or ammunition stores that would exceed the legal limits of the government of Costa Rica.”
“I can assure you, my friend, that I have no idea where you may have heard these lies. We here are law-abiding citizens and would have nothing to do with such an unsavory business. You will have my full cooperation in your work, and if you do find such contraband, we will bring to justice anyone you can prove is participating in such lawlessness. Our entire community is open to you. I just ask that you are not rough with our citizens. As I said, we are peaceful people, and courtesy will get you further than strong-arming.”
“I’ll be as strong-armed as I need. If everything you say is true, that shouldn’t be much, right?”
“Sí, not much. Not much at all,” said Monti. Both men laughed as they played their little game. “Perhaps you’d like to check out the many motels that we have available and find a place you’d like to stay. Then I shall escort you to wherever you wish to go.”
“I already know where
I want to stay—that Best Western just across the bridge down the road.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.” Monti shook his head regretfully. “It is high season, and that motel is always sold out for months in advance. But I can recommend—”
“Well, it’s not going to be sold out today,” replied Abel casually. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard that one of those beach house guest rooms will be cleared out and clean by noon.”
“I don’t think that you heard that, señor,” said Monti, in a noticeably more serious tone. “In fact, Faviola was quite clear this morning that the motel was sold out. Perhaps you are mistaken.”
“No mistake,” said Abel, almost as if he hadn’t heard what Monti said. He got up to leave. “Maybe you’ll need to remind Faviola. I want to spend a little time walking around town, get the lay of the land, you know. Then we can head up to that big frame house up the road. I need to check out that garage he’s got up there. Let’s hope I don’t have to use too much strong-arming to find out what I need to know because after that, I’m really going to need to settle into one of those beach house guest rooms for the rest of the day. Comprende?”
“Sí, señor,” answered Monti, his voice smooth as a dagger’s blade. “Comprendo completely. Shall we meet back here in, say, one hour?”
“Sounds good to me,” replied Abel. He started off toward the rows of motels and restaurants along the edge of the main surfing beach.
“Señor!” called Monti. Abel stopped. “Enjoy my town and my people. There is much beauty in both of them!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Abel called back, then went about his business.
Monti made a phone call as he watched Abel go.
“Paco, make sure all is ready in the garage,” he said. “Sí, sí, in about an hour. This one acts like he’s a tough little shit . . . I can’t tell yet, but we’ll need to be careful . . . I can’t tell that yet either, but we’ll both find out soon enough. Adios, mijo.”
The Green Cathedral Page 8