“Put it away somewhere, and we’ll call Andrés and the owners of the apartment. Someone needs to explain this mess to them. Don’t worry—this is a good sign.”
“Ethan’s alive?”
“Or at least that they haven’t found him.”
After some negotiations, Andrés and the owners agreed to meet there and leave the women out of the police report. The deal was that the owners would agree not to say anything about the two investigators in return for their not casting aspersions on the security of the complex. Although she already had a pretty good idea, Ari asked Michelle to give her a detailed history of the case so far. Ethan had told her about Calvo, but Suarez had warned her off him. Michelle, however, confirmed her suspicions that he was their only possible line of inquiry. His office had closed for the day, so they couldn’t consult with him until the next morning. The best thing to do was go back to the hotel and rest.
“OK, we’ll wait. Ethan told me about him. He deals with the Mara. Let’s try him—he must know something.”
“But we don’t have a contract with him anymore.”
“But I have money, which can be much more persuasive. Tomorrow, before we go see him, we need to find a sporting goods store.”
“Sporting goods?”
“That’s right.”
Ethan felt like the main attraction at a circus. They’d even set up a kind of stage for the freak to be put on display. The ringmaster was keeping up a constant patter, calling on his comrades to step right up and take a good look. To the prisoner’s surprise, he was making no effort to interrogate him.
“Fuck you, man. You’re going to sing. When the pozolero gets here, you’re going to wish you’d never been born. You’re going to tell him everything, right down to the first time you ever jacked off, you motherfucker.”
This brought an admiring shiver and exclamations of surprise from the audience. Pleased with this reaction, the gangster repeated himself. This time, though, he was addressing his men.
“Fuck me, the pozolero. They’re bringing the pozolero just for you, you fucker.”
“I thought the pozolero worked for the Diecisiete?” said a voice.
“Fucker, you don’t know shit.”
“Hey, that’s just what they say, man!”
“Look, you piece of shit, the pozolero is the pozolero. He’s a fucking magician, a magician. You have to fucking pay him—he’ll work for anyone if they pay.”
“So he’s a sellout!”
“Motherfucker, shut the fuck up! Who’s going to mess with him? You?”
The audience enjoyed the public put-down. The only thing keeping Ethan awake was the pain. He struggled not to pass out, afraid it would mean certain death.
“Yeah, man! I’ll fuck with him. For the Doce!”
“Don’t fuck around—you don’t know shit. Wait till you see him. You’ll shit your pants. You’ll see, bitch.”
He turned to Ethan, who could barely see him. “Gringo, you’re shit out of luck. You know why they call him the pozolero?”
“Because he turns you into pozol, man!”
There was general laughter. Ethan knew pozol was a corn-based soup. Gangs often used acid to get rid of their enemies. It was a favorite method of the toughest cartels. The Mara must have decided that that was how they were going to deal with him. First, they’d get all the information they could; then they’d make an example of him.
“Yeah, that’s right! They’re going to pozoliar you, man. And they’re not going to kill you first. Motherfucker, I saw it once, and I threw up. You can’t believe how they scream, bitch. Even when they don’t got a mouth no more. You’ll see, bitches, and you won’t forget it. They didn’t even call him. He put out word that if we found the gringo, he’d take care of him. Weeks ago. No one’s allowed to touch him.”
The emboldened pack started to chant in unison, not unlike the crowd at a soccer match: “Po-zo-lero! Po-zo-lero!” Ethan tried to look around through blood-soaked eyes. He stared back at this grotesque gathering of pubescent psychopaths who were braying for his blood. He realized that Michi wasn’t the only child to have disappeared. All these kids—hardened murderers, proud rapists, pitiless aggressors willing to commit great acts of cruelty on behalf of their gang—were just lost little boys. He was surrounded by faces that may have been prematurely aged and hardened by their lifestyle but still belonged to children who had known nothing but abuse from the moment they were born. Ethan couldn’t bring himself to hate them in spite of the way they were treating him. They were the real lost boys, brutalized right from birth, made this way by their own people, like the babies carried by the girls they took as their partners, whose faces were tattooed with the same symbols. These girls all knew what it was like to be raped by a relative; they all trusted their future to a life as slaves of the Mara. Their babies would be condemned to the same fate they’d suffered because when you’d only ever lived in hell, that was all you knew.
Adrian Calvo leaned back in his chair and looked out at the city through the window. He’d seen the violence increase over the past few decades, but he’d always managed to stay above it. From where he was, the figures moving around below looked like toys. He couldn’t help thinking that they were all at his beck and call. Deep down he hated arrogance and delusions of superiority, but he felt that this thought was justified. He’d known generals, landowners, and dictators who boasted about how they terrorized their citizens, and now there were criminal gangs who wanted to act like oligarchs. The violence and cruelty were always the same. He’d learned that the look of power never changed, only how you got hold of it. That was his greatest skill, the one that had kept him alive and allowed him to prosper. It was why he had a driver but was still able to walk to his old block to see Doña Amelia, the old woman who’d been making tortillas in the street for the last thirty years. He made sure to have lunch there regularly so he’d never forget who he was or where he’d come from. Every time he went through a difficult experience, every time the Mara threatened him and he was able to deal with it, he allowed himself the luxury of looking down at the rest of the city from on high, telling himself that he was above it all. Not in a snobbish or elitist way. It was about survival. There was no doubt about that.
The Doce gangsters had captured their gringo, and he was back on good terms with them. Did he feel bad about that? Certainly. In spite of everything he’d been through, Calvo still maintained a clear sense of right and wrong, and although it never interfered with pragmatic concerns, it hurt every time he violated it. The gringo was a good person, without a trace of malice. He’d warned the man and explained the consequences of his actions. Once again, Calvo had survived when others hadn’t. He went to his minifridge, which was nestled in a cherrywood cupboard, and covered the base of a tumbler with ice to enjoy a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. This was his reward for successful business deals, be they palatable or otherwise.
Then he heard the commotion. It sounded as though it was coming from right outside. But it couldn’t be. He felt his adrenaline begin to flow. He heard someone run across the carpet, and then it was over as soon as it had begun. He went to the intercom and buzzed his secretary, but she didn’t answer. Then he opened the drawer in his desk and took out his gun, although he knew that if they really had come for him, it wouldn’t do him any good. He tucked it into his belt behind his back and went to the door, wondering what could possibly have gone wrong and whether he should call his wife to say goodbye before he opened the door. Then he banished morbid thoughts. He’d survived prison during the dictatorship, avoided the death squads, and sat down with the heads of the worst Mara factions. If he couldn’t get through whatever awaited him out there, he didn’t deserve to.
Before he exposed himself, he reflected that he hadn’t heard any gunshots, which was a hopeful sign. Maybe it was a kidnapping. Maybe they were coming only to take him away. If that was the case, it might be worth barricading himself in and calling the police. Then he remembered his assi
stants and what would happen to them if he didn’t come out. He couldn’t hide himself away; his life wasn’t worth all of theirs. He worked up his courage and stepped out into the open only to be greeted with one of the most welcome surprises of his life. A couple of his employees’ desks were smashed to pieces while they themselves lay in the rubble. Two of them were trying to get back up while the other two were knocked out cold. At the reception desk, his secretary was kneeling down like a turtle with her hands over her head. Presiding over the chaos, in the process of kicking over another desk, was a young woman armed with a baseball bat. She glared at him, speaking near-perfect Spanish in a terrible accent.
“The things you can do with a bat,” she said, nodding to her weapon. Then she threw it toward him, not trying to hurt him but to distract him while she went for a gun she’d seen on the ground. Calvo stepped back a little as he watched the bat put a dent in his door. Then he found that the girl was pointing the gun at him. She didn’t look to be in the mood for jokes. But he was.
“Hello. Hmmm . . . you must be Ari.”
Ari walked toward him decisively, keeping the gun trained on him.
He smiled. “How much is Ethan paying you? I don’t know why he didn’t just send you first.”
She kept walking toward him without saying a word and pointed the gun in his face at point-blank range.
He pushed it away with a finger. “Don’t bother. It’s not loaded. We don’t keep loaded weapons in the office.”
Ari looked annoyed and dropped the gun. Before he could react, she grabbed his right thumb, and he suddenly found himself with his arm twisted behind his back, his elbow bent almost to the breaking point, and his face against the doorframe.
“My, you’re good. Do you do outside work?”
Ari searched him, took out his Glock, and pressed it against his cheek. “This one’s loaded.”
“Yes, it is. Be careful—it’s sensitive.”
“Where’s Ethan? Who has him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pick up your phone, and call whoever you have to. Right now. Then you’re coming with me to get him.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but if the Mara have him, he’ll be dead by now. And we’ll be next.”
“You’re next, whatever happens.”
“Wow, what a girl. I just set that up for you, didn’t I? Well, Ethan certainly has good taste in women.”
Ari didn’t understand much of what the man was saying or his jolly attitude, but she could tell that she wouldn’t be able to force him to do anything. She let him go and stood back.
Rubbing his arm, he spoke to his secretary. “Ángeles. Would you be good enough to bring a couple of coffees?” Then he turned back to Ari. “Black, I imagine? We’re in the land of coffee. Sugar or sweetener?” He nodded to his secretary, who stood up, her hair a mess, and went to the kitchen with as much dignity as she could muster. “Send the guys to the doctor to see if they’ve hurt themselves. Except for Wilmer; I think I’ll be needing him. And would you mind calling the super to see if there’s any way we can salvage this mess? Please? Thank you so much. Doña Ari, please come into my office. Ah! Before I forget . . .”
Ari waited warily as he went through his pockets.
“Here’s my card. Adrian Calvo, at your service.”
All Ethan knew was that he’d been dragged into a cellar. He’d lost consciousness along the way, but that hadn’t mollified his captors. They’d just rolled him along in a barrel to make things easier. Every time something touched his skin, he felt a sharp pain, while his broken ribs meant that he was uncomfortable both sitting up and lying down. In his confused state, he found it hard to take in the gravity of the situation. Although he knew what was going to happen, it didn’t seem as though it was going to happen to him. The situation was completely unreal, a series of random, unconnected events. Suddenly he found himself presented with the three leading members of the gang. The chorus must have disappeared at some point. So what they were planning to do to him was either too horrible or too exclusive for the others. In a sudden moment of clarity, he realized that they were more nervous than he was.
Finally, an echoing sound announced the pozolero’s arrival. He was a beast even these savages feared. That was all Ethan needed to know. After the overture, he emerged from the shadows like a dark colossus, gleaming in the weak light. The three gangsters, trembling like scared little kids, knelt down before him. Ethan, resigned to his fate, had no qualms about looking straight at him. His eyes met those of a living sculpture, the jet-black embodiment of cold, stony, demonic indifference set off by albino irises that bored straight into his soul. Ethan had seen them before. For a second, their eyes made a ghostly connection, and Ethan realized why the executioner had insisted on dealing with him himself. The pozolero saw that he’d been recognized, and his gaze was snuffed out like a candle. He walked toward Ethan, kicking his fawning admirers out of the way. They obediently scurried to the side. Then he gently took hold of Ethan and tried to stand him up, but the beaten man could only moan and mumble.
“No . . . I can’t . . .”
The Mara observed warily, unsure what was going on. The pozolero lifted Ethan and carried him to the only chair in the basement, where he was a little more comfortable. Eventually, the three gang leaders lifted their heads, unnerved by this gentle treatment. Ethan, aware of an irony that was beyond them, tried to laugh, but the snort he produced sounded more like a cough. The pozolero was Martín, Rosita’s Caribbean right-hand man, the one who had escorted him back to her hut. Ever since their experience at the beach, Ethan had been under his protection. He knew that he’d never get to the bottom of the complex web of relationships that governed this strange universe, nor the bizarre ethics of its inhabitants. All he knew right now was that that web had saved his life. Martín, the pozolero, stood between him and his executioners. They had no idea how to react.
The talkative one stood up hesitantly. “So . . . what’s going on?”
Martín bared his teeth and answered in a growl that sounded as though it came from hell itself. “This foreigner has been blessed by Rosita the witch. He can’t be harmed. I told you. You’ve sinned by hurting him! He mustn’t be profaned. Under no circumstances can he die. Now your job will be to save him. I’ll talk to whoever I need to. You just do what I say!”
The three Mara couldn’t believe their ears. They just stared at him open mouthed before looking to each other for answers.
The second-in-command shrugged. “Is this . . . fuck me, is this a joke?”
After her little display, Calvo quickly came to an understanding with Ari.
“So let’s see if I’ve got it right. Your plan is to storm Mara territory, guns blazing, shooting everything in sight until you find Ethan? Is that right?”
Ari nodded slowly to indicate that that was indeed what she had in mind.
Calvo poured himself another drink. “I’m getting a better idea of how you work as a team. He does the planning, doesn’t he?”
Ari knew he was making fun of her, and she wasn’t in the mood for it. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid?”
“Oh, I’m always afraid, my dear. Don’t underestimate fear; it’s a useful emotion. We evolved from the monkeys that managed to escape. The brave ones were eaten by tigers. By the way, Ángeles tells me that Doña Michelle is still waiting down in the lobby. Why don’t we invite her up?”
“She can go fuck herself.”
“I see you’ve picked up the local lingo too.”
This warrior possessed a quality that Calvo knew was as rare as it was valuable: a determination that wasn’t going to let moral qualms, or anything else, get in the way. He was surprised by how different she was from Ethan. Where he was noble to a fault, she had a wild resolve to achieve her goal, and she wasn’t about to waste time on strategy or planning. Such an attitude could get her in serious trouble if she didn’t have anyone to guide her, but at the end of the day, he’d much rather have her on h
is side than as an enemy.
“Let me tell you what I can do for you. One of my boys is going to find out where they’re holding Ethan. It won’t be easy, and it’s very dangerous, especially for me. Your partner has got me into some tricky situations. Let’s just say that I won’t be thanked for bringing him up again, but at least I’ll be able to say that I did everything I could. My opinion is that he’s already dead, but it can’t hurt to try. My fee will be two thousand dollars, in cash, right now.”
“You’re going to charge two thousand dollars for picking up the phone?”
“It doesn’t seem fair, does it? Listen, I’ve spent the past forty years working for justice, and it scares me a little more every day. It’s a creature with nothing but a mouth and an ass, and when you’re standing in front of it, you have no idea whether it’s going to swallow you whole or shit all over you. It is very much against my better judgment that I try to achieve justice for you, but you must at least give me my due. I’m putting my neck on the line. Two thousand dollars is a bargain. Also, when you go off to get yourself killed, you’ll think of that money and say to yourself, ‘At least Calvo has it instead of these bastards.’” He pressed down on the intercom. “Doña Ángeles, would you be so kind as to show Wilmer into my office, please?”
Shadows Across America Page 34
