The Border

by Don Winslow

  Those orders are to find Damien, kill him slowly and painfully, and video it. A lesson must be taught, the world had to be shown that El Abogado is anything but weak.

  “And you’ll enjoy it, right?” Ric asks.

  “It’s my job,” Belinda says. “What, you think you can save him? If we don’t do it, someone else will. What do you think Elena’s people will do if they find him first?”

  “If I find him first,” Ric says, “I’m putting two quick ones in the back of his head.”

  “Listen to you, the experienced killer all of a sudden,” Belinda says. “I mean, are you kidding me right now? We’re going to do what the boss says.”

  Ric pulls the car over, turns and looks at her. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to look for Damien every place he isn’t. We’re going to turn over every rock and stone where he’s not at. And guess what, Belinda—we’re not going to find him.”

  “You do you,” she says, “I’ll do me.”

  Ric does him.

  The new version of him, anyway—the engaged, focused, take-charge son-of-the-boss guy who starts running his father’s people like they’re his own. He sends planes with two hundred sicarios to Sinaloa to hunt down Damien and tells them—go find Damien Tapia, and when you do, bring him to me.

  Intact.

  I want to deal with him personally.

  Most of them misinterpret this in exactly the way he wants—they think he wants to take Damien apart himself to avenge the insult against his godfather, and they respect him for it.

  El Ahijado’s stature grows.

  Núñez comes on Three Kings Day.

  It was only a matter of time, Caro thinks, before one of them showed up. They all will eventually, he knows, it’s just a question of who is the first.

  Caro meets him in the living room. The sofa is old and overstuffed, the upholstered easy chair one of those Barcaloungers that tilts backward to let an old man nod off to the television.

  Núñez resists the impulse to brush off the sofa before he sits down.

  The news is on the television. Caro has a small TV in every room—he likes to watch baseball.

  Núñez arrived with a rosca and set the cake on the kitchen table as if it were a gift of great price—incense, frankincense or myrrh. Caro wonders if it’s a message—inside the cake is hidden a little figure of the baby Jesus. Whoever gets that slice has to pay for the food and drink on Candlemas.

  “You heard what Damien Tapia did?” Núñez asks.

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “It’s outrageous,” Núñez says. “I don’t want to hurt him, but—”

  “But you might have to.”

  “If I do, I have your blessing?”

  “You don’t need my blessing,” Núñez says. “I’m retired.”

  “But you still have our respect, Don Rafael,” Núñez says. “It’s out of respect that I came. You may know that Adán appointed me as his successor. But now I face challenges from Iván Esparza and Elena Sánchez. Not to mention young Damien.”

  “What do you want from me?” Caro asks. “As you can see, I am a poor old man. I have no power.”

  “But you have influence,” Núñez says. “You are one of a great generation. One of the men who founded our organization. Your name still means something, your approval still means something, your advice and counsel . . . I would very much appreciate your support.”

  “What support can I give you?” Caro asks. “Did you see sicarios outside? Vehicles? Airplanes? Fields of poppies? Labs? You have those things, Núñez, not me.”

  “If Rafael Caro were to endorse my leadership,” Núñez says, “it would carry a lot of weight.”

  “All you want is my name,” Caro says. “Which is all I have left.”

  “Of course I didn’t come empty-handed.”

  “Besides the rosca?” Caro asks. “You brought groceries? Frijoles? Rice?”

  “You’re mocking me,” Núñez says. “I know my manner makes me susceptible to ridicule, but I am serious. Adán took everything from you. Perhaps I can restore what he took.”

  “You can give me twenty years?” Caro asks.

  “Of course not,” Núñez says. “I didn’t mean to presume. What I should have said is that perhaps I could offer partial restitution. Make your remaining years . . . comfortable.”

  “A new chair?”

  “Again, you mock.”

  “Then stop talking around the subject,” Caro says. “If you think I’m for sale, make me an offer.”

  “A million dollars.”

  You’re more desperate than I thought, Caro thinks. If you’d offered half that, I might have said yes. But a million makes me think that you’re losing, and how can I endorse the power of someone who’s losing?

  “You said you valued my advice,” Caro says. “Let me give you some: You’re straddling the fence between Iván and Elena. That doesn’t make either one loyal to you, it just makes you seem weak. Neither side respects you, neither side fears you. And the Damiens and Ascensiones see that and move on your territory. And you do nothing.”

  “Ascensión’s not moving on my territory.”

  “He will,” Caro says. “He’s declared his independence—what does he call his organization? The New Jalisco cartel?”

  “Something like that.” The Cartel Jalisco Nuevo, CJN.

  “He’ll become your competitor,” Caro says. “If he can do it, what’s to stop everyone else? I won’t take your money, Núñez, and I won’t lend you my name. Here’s what I will do for you—I won’t endorse anyone else. Unlike you, I can afford to stay neutral, provide an arbitrator if needed. But you, Ricardo, you need to get strong, make them fear you. If you do that, maybe we have more to talk about.”

  Caro gets up from his chair. “I have to piss now.”

  It’s the Día de los Reyes, Caro thinks as he stands and waits for his water to come, and now there are, indeed, three kings of the Sinaloa cartel. Núñez thinks he’s the sole king, but there’s also Iván Esparza, and the queen mother, Elena, would make a king of her sole surviving son.

  Tito Ascensión, the faithful old servant, might think he can be king now, whether he admits it to himself or not.

  Young Damien, too.

  Who just thumbed his nose at the crown.

  Núñez is in a terrible position. He has to lash out at someone, but he can’t attack Elena Sánchez or Iván Esparza, and he won’t be able to find Damien.

  That leaves one choice.

  A bad one, Caro thinks as his piss finally comes and he chuckles, thinking of the rosca sitting on the kitchen counter.

  There’s a king hidden in the cake.

  The baby Jesus stares wide-eyed at Tito Ascensión.

  Freshly repainted, dressed in fine silk robes, it lies on the counter of the doll shop and looks up.

  Most people don’t like to make eye contact with El Mastín, but Jesus has no such problem.

  Tito’s wife dispatched him to pick up the Niño Dios from the restoration shop and deliver it to church for the Día de la Candelaria before the family feast of tamales and atole that celebrates the last day of Christmas.

  It’s funny, he thinks as he waits for the owner to tot up the bill, you’re the boss of your own organization, you give orders to hundreds of men, but when the wife gives you a honey-do list, you do it yourself. You don’t delegate something as important as picking up Jesus.

  The shop owner’s little boy also sneaks peeks at Tito. Pretending to be busy dusting the shelf behind the counter, he glances under his arm at the renowned drug lord who controls the city. Even a ten-year-old boy knows who El Mastín is.

  Tito sticks out his tongue and waggles his fingers by his ears.

  The boy smiles.

  The owner steps over and hands Tito the bill—on it is written 0, and he says, “Happy Candlemas, Señor.”

  “No, Ortiz, I couldn’t,” Tito says.

  He hands the man two hundred dollars.

  They eac
h know their obligations.

  “Thank you. Thank you, Señor.”

  Tito takes the doll and walks out to where his new Mercedes SUV is parked in front of the shop. His bodyguard sits in the passenger seat with a MAC-10 sticking out the window.

  “Get in back,” Tito says. “Jesus gets the front seat.”

  The bodyguard gets out and Tito buckles Jesus in.

  Most guys in Tito’s position have drivers, but he prefers to be behind the wheel. Tito loves driving and now he drives through Guadalajara past graffiti that reads, adán vive.

  Tito doubts it.

  Dead is dead.

  He should know. He’s killed maybe hundreds of people—he’s lost count—and not one of them has ever come back.

  The car is the second in a convoy of three.

  The Explorer in front and the Ford 150 pickup behind are full of Tito’s gunmen, even though this part of Guadalajara, like most of Jalisco state, is safe territory. The Jalisco cartel isn’t at war with anyone, it’s allied with Sinaloa, and most of the state police and local federales are on Tito’s payroll.

  But it never hurts to be safe.

  In a world where people feel free to burn down Adán Barrera’s home . . .

  Jesus, what could that kid have been thinking?

  Then again, maybe Sinaloa isn’t Sinaloa anymore.

  Before going to the doll shop, Tito had spoken by phone with Rafael Caro.

  “Who is Iván Esparza to tell you what you can or can’t do?” Caro asked him.

  They were talking about Iván’s refusal to let Tito take his organization into heroin.

  “I owe Esparza everything.”

  “No disrespect,” Caro said. “But Nacho is gone. If he were alive, I would never suggest this. But the son is not the father.”

  “I still owe him my loyalty,” Tito said, remembering the day of Nacho’s funeral, when he had gone up to the widow to ask if there was anything he could do. She had taken both his hands in hers and said, “Take care of my sons.”

  He swore he would.

  “Loyalty is a two-way street,” Caro said. “Are they loyal to you? Are they letting you into the heroin business—billions of dollars a year? Have they offered you Michoacán, your home? You’ve done everything for Sinaloa—killed for them, bled for them. What do they do for you? Pat you on the head like a good dog? Toss a few bones to their loyal, faithful ‘El Mastín’? You deserve more than that.”

  “I’m happy with what I have.”

  “Billions of dollars in heroin money?” Caro asked. “A ready-made American market? It would be almost business malpractice not to take advantage of that. You already have the coke labs, the meth labs. They can be easily converted to heroin.”

  “Sinaloa would never let me use their plazas,” Tito said. “Or they’d charge me a premium.”

  “Ah, listen,” Caro said. “We’re just talking, right? Shooting the shit.”

  But it is serious, Tito thinks now as he drives. Taking on the Sinaloa cartel is very fucking serious. Between Núñez, Sánchez and the Esparzas, they have hundreds, if not thousands, of sicarios. They have most of the federal police, the army and the politicians.

  And taking Baja? Tijuana?

  You have a family, he reminds himself.

  You have a son.

  What do you owe Rubén?

  If you get into a war with Sinaloa you could get killed. Shit, he could get killed. His inheritance could be an early grave. Or a prison cell, the fate of a lot of others who went up against Sinaloa and found they were fighting the police, the military and the federal government, too. The cemeteries and the prisons are full of Sinaloa’s enemies.

  Rubén wouldn’t survive prison.

  He’s short and slight.

  Brave, a little tiger, but that wouldn’t help him against a gang of muscled convicts. In some prisons you can extend your power to protect him, but in others you can’t, especially if you’re at war with Sinaloa.

  The prisons they don’t control, the Zetas do, and Tito trembles to think what would happen if the Z Company found out that Tito Ascensión’s son was in one of their lockups. They’d gang-rape him every night until they got tired of the fun and then they’d kill him.

  And take days to do it.

  But the plus side?

  Wealth beyond measure.

  If you won, Rubén would inherit an empire worth not millions, but billions. The kind of wealth that changes families forever, that makes gentlemen out of peasants. That buys farms, estates, ranches, haciendas. The kind of wealth that would mean Rubén’s sons would never have to dirty their hands.

  They would own the avocado orchards.

  And how do you want Rubén to see you?

  As Iván Esparza’s dog?

  Or do you want your son to see his father as El Patrón, El Señor, the Lord of the Skies?

  Rubén was three years old when Tito went to prison.

  A little kid who cried every time he saw his papi and cried every time he left. Tito would stand there in his orange jumpsuit watching his hijo, his vida, his life being carried out howling, reaching back for him, and it would break his heart.

  Couldn’t show it, though.

  You showed that, you showed any weakness in San Quentin, the wolves would sniff it out and rip you to shreds. Fuck you in your ass, your mouth—shit, if those wore out, they’d cut new holes to fuck you in.

  No, you had to have a heart of stone and a face to match.

  That was way back in 1993, when Adán Barrera was going fifteen rounds with Güero Méndez for the El Patrón title. Tito had been in the joint a year when he got word that Rafael Caro had been arrested and extradited to the US on a twenty-five-to-life sentence, most likely for the sin of being in Méndez’s corner.

  Tito, he just got four years.

  It was enough.

  One thousand, four hundred and sixty days behind the walls of “La Pinta” was plenty, because prison is the worst place in the world.

  Four years pretending your right hand was pussy. Four years lifting weights on the yards so other men couldn’t make you pussy. Four years eating garbage, taking crap from the COs. Four years of seeing your wife and son once every month or so in a “visiting room.”

  He saw a lot of guys lose it in La Pinta. Strong guys, tough guys who fell down and cried like babies. Or got hooked on the heroin that was easily available and turned themselves into ghosts. He saw men become women—start wearing wigs and makeup, tape their junk up between their legs, start taking it up the ass. Or guys would do time in the hoyo and lose their minds—come out babbling fools.

  La Pinta was designed to break you, but it didn’t break Tito, mostly because of La Eme.

  He followed the rules and reported every day for la máquina, Eme’s mandatory daily exercise sessions held to keep its men in fighting shape.

  He did the calisthenics, the push-ups, the sit-ups, the pull-ups, and he jerked iron. Already strong from the avocado groves, he yoked up like a bull.

  Now he feels the scar that runs down his right cheek and remembers. It sucks, he thinks, that it came not from the mayates or the güeros, but from his own people. And it happened, appropriately enough, in “Blood Alley.”

  The llavero—the Eme shot caller—had warned him not to go down to that section of the yard, at least not alone—but Tito knew he had to prove he wasn’t afraid if he didn’t want to spend the next four years fighting off the norteños, who were at war with Eme.

  He wanted to get it over with, so the very next day he took a stroll down Blood Alley and the norteños didn’t waste any time, either. He saw one of them coming, heard the other behind him.

  Tito turned and swung. Put all his two-fifty behind the punch and shattered the farmer’s jaw. Then he turned but was a little slow—the pedazo sliced down his cheek. Tito didn’t feel the pain. He grabbed the knife hand and crushed it like a bag of potato chips.

  The man screamed and dropped the shank.

  Tito held on to the
shattered hand and used his left to pound the guy into the dirt. He would have kept pounding but he didn’t want the murder charge that would keep him in there the rest of his life so he stopped, let the COs Mace him and knock him to the ground with their sticks and carry him to the infirmary, where they stitched his face like a mailbag.

  Then they tossed him into the hoyo.

  Tito did ninety days in the hole, but heard that the farmer lost his fucking hand. Even better, the State of California decided that he had acted in self-defense and didn’t stack any more charges on him.

  Tito did his time.

  Did it with strength, dignity and respect.

  Like a convict, not an inmate.

  He hurt on the inside.

  Missed his wife, his son.

  When he got out and they deported him, he swore he was never going back—to the US or to prison.

  He’s never going to be separated from his son again.

  But can you betray Nacho, who made you? he thinks now. Can you throw the dice, risking your life and your son’s?

  No, Tito thinks.

  You can’t.

  Life has given you more than you ever thought you’d have; don’t tempt life to take it all away.

  Then he hears the helicopter.

  The Explorer in front jams on its brakes and his sicarios pile out.

  Tito cranks the wheel. “What’s going on?”

  “An army checkpoint on the next block,” the driver says.

  Looking into the rearview mirror, Tito sees military vehicles racing up. The Ford pickup swings sideways to block the street. His men get out and take cover behind the truck. Tito hears the popping of gunfire as he turns right down a side street. Looks out the window and up and sees the helicopter bank and hover over him.

  Fuck them, he thinks.

  I’m not going back.

  They can kill me but they’re not taking me back to prison.

  “¡Jefe!”

  Tito sees the armored car blocking the street ahead. He throws the car into reverse and floors it.

  The bodyguard shouts out the window. “The jefe is here! They’re trying to get the jefe!”

  Men come running out of bars and bodegas. Some of them are his sicarios, others are just neighborhood guys who know what’s best for them. They start to throw anything they can find into the street between Tito and the army vehicle—chairs, tables, a parking sign. Others run up to the roofs and throw down bricks, lengths of pipe, shingles.