by Rodolfo Peña
“From what he has heard, he thinks that Senator Romero will make the charge during the Senate’s afternoon session; he will state that he has documents that prove that the candidate, Leobardo Contreras, if elected, will ask Congress to legalize drugs; the newspapers and television people will ‘cover’ the story and read the prepared stuff they will have been given, and the President of the United States will be forced to make a statement by Monday or Tuesday.”
“How will that guarantee that…?” the underboss began to ask.
“Well,” the President’s cousin continued, “our friend thinks that the U.S. President will send a private letter to President Cervantes urging him to withdraw his support of Leobardo Contreras as his party’s presidential candidate and to start a request for consensus within the party to name another presidential candidate. That’s when Senator Romero’s name will show up on the list, and the rest is easy.”
“What do you mean ‘the rest is easy’? How can Romero prove what he is saying?”
“Our friend’s from the north say that their people have got hold of documents that prove that, if elected, Leobardo Contraras will ask Congress to legalize drugs.”
“Do they exist? I mean the documents?” asked the underboss.
“Oh, yes, they exist,” said the President’s cousin.
“How do we know they exist?” insisted the underboss.
“Because we wrote them,” said Senator Elizondo.
There was a silence. Through the window that had been left open to allow the cigar smoke to exit, the soft, rustling sound of the yacht parting the seawater drifted into the room.
“Let me explain,” said Senator Elizondo. “When President Echeverría pushed the party into naming Leobardo Contreras as presidential candidate, and his successor, he did so with the understanding that Contreras would include drug legalization in his presidential agenda.”
Alfonso Echeverría, continued. “You see, my cousin, the President, couldn’t openly support that because he wanted the Americans to approve the Bilateral Trade Agreement. So we had to prepare the candidate’s platform and ideas on legalizing drugs. That way, the President could have credible deniability before the Americans. We also had to do demographic studies to see what the people thought; we will need their support, whether we like it or not. Unfortunately, the other side found out about the documents and they have been trying to get hold of them because they not only prove that the future President is going to ask Congress to legalize drugs, but that the present President has secretly supported that agenda.”
“How did they find out about the documents?” growled the underboss.
Echeverría shrugged and said, “That doesn’t matter. What is important is that they know about them and are trying to get them.”
“So why don’t you just have them destroyed?” asked the underboss.
Alfonso Echeverría said, “It’s not that simple. There are a lot of documents: surveys we made, emails we sent back and forth between those of us who were handling the project, drafts of speeches for the candidate.” He paused as if thinking and then continued: “We had to gather all of the documents, especially the emails that were in several computers, and then put them in a safe place. And remember, we will need the information when the presidential candidate starts his campaign so we can’t just destroy everything.”
“Are you sure the documents have been stored in a safe place?” asked Governor Sanchez. “I am especially worried about emails; those concern me directly.”
“Yes,” said Echeverría, “I was informed by a reliable source that all of the documents are in a safe place.”
“So, it seems that circumstances will force us to accelerate the execution of our plans; our man will have to act before Friday,” said the underboss.
“Yes, don Abelardo,” said Echeverría to the underboss, “he will have to be ready before next Friday.”
“You should have let one of my men handle this,” said don Abelardo.
“No, don Abelardo. We can’t risk the cartels being blamed. The hit has to seem to come from an unknown source. We can’t risk it being traced to anyone of us and through us to the President.”
“One thing worries me,” said Governor Sanchez. “When Senator Romero is out of the way, what will stop our northern cousins from coming up with another guy or producing the documents anyway?”
Alfonso Echeverría stood up and looked out of a porthole into the darkness. “Everyone will understand and get the message, see? No one will want to risk the same fate. If someone so high up can be hit, that will mean that no one is safe. And, as a bonus, it will give the President an excuse to say that in spite of the fact that the Conservative Party holds all the top law enforcements positions, they have been unable to stop the lawlessness. He will then proceed to replace all the Conservatives with people from our Party. Our people, in turn, will ask the Americans to scale back their intervention in our country and to recall most of their agents. It will be a clean sweep, you see?”
“They will be furious,” said the Governor. “We will have to be ready for whatever they do in reprisal.”
The men smoked and drank quietly and then the Governor said, “Are you sure we’re not going to cause your cousin, President Echeverría, a big problem?”
Alfonso Echeverría smiled. “My cousin is a smart man. He can handle this. Now, why don’t you go join the ladies and entertain them while I discuss some other details with my friend, Governor Sanchez? The ladies must be bored. Don’t be greedy. There’s one to a customer,” he said laughing. “I certainly have to entertain my lady guest because she will be leaving us when we get to Mazatlán.”
“Where is she going?” asked Senator Elizondo.
“Back to New York. She works there, you know.”
The men filed out of the dining room and went down the short flight of stairs to the aft deck where they joined the women, who were now drowsy with drink. As soon as the men joined them, couples formed and one by one, they left for their respective staterooms.
As soon as Alfonso Echeverría closed the dining room door the Governor asked, “Do you think they were satisfied?”
“With what? With the way the plan is going?” said Echeverría while lighting another cigar.
“Yes, but I am more concerned about the documents.” He got up to pour himself a full snifter of port. “I hope we fooled them into thinking that they’re in a computer under your control and that they don’t come sniffing around our University. Those people from the Cartels are capable of anything, with so much money and so many violent people in their ranks.”
“You worry too much, Governor,” said Echeverría. “You have to remember that those documents are a double sword: they can be harmful to us but they can be harmful to our enemies as well. I am sure our ‘cousins from the North’ would hate to see them made public.”
“Yes, I know that but I’m sure that that underboss, Unzúntia, has already figured out that apart from being dangerous, those damned documents could be used to extort a lot of people, even make a lot of money.”
“Oh, I am sure he has, yes. If I have figured that out he surely has,” said Echeverría.
In spite of the warm night, and the warmth of the cognac, when he heard those words the Governor trembled slightly as if a chill had cursed through his body.
“Tell me, what was it you called me about yesterday? Didn’t you mention that one of our collaborators had been killed or something?”
“Yes,” said the Governor warily, “he was a young man that worked in the University’s Computer Department.”
“Oh, I see,” said Echeverría, his eyes narrowing like a cat that’s focusing on its prey.
“What were the circumstances? Is this related to our project, do you think?”
“We don’t know. The Judicial Police are looking into it; I’m having my people keep an eye on the investigation.”
“Hmm,” said Echeverría as he drew on his cigar, “I wonder if there should be an inve
stigation.”
“Ah,” said the Governor in a sigh of relief, “I have wondered the same thing, so just in case, I prepared a document stating that because of lack of resources, or something to that effect, we would turn it over to the federal people.”
“How would that help?” asked the President’s cousin furrowing his brow.
“Well, if we send it to the federal people, it will be archived behind a lot of other unsolved cases and that will as good as bury it, as it were. It will take months if not years for them to dedicate any resources to it.”
“Mm, ok, but I hope you have taken steps to insure the safety of the information.” The Governor could sense the veiled threat weaving through the words.
“Yes, yes, I talked to the, uh, person who is taking care of it and he assured me it was quite safe,” said the Governor hiding a card or two himself.
“Right, so keep me informed. When you get back to Monterrey, look into it again and call me if there is anything I should know. Now, let’s go and join our friends and see if they left anything for you, eh?” He laughed his ugly laugh.
Part 3: Day 3
Chapter 21: A Two-Day Drinking Spree
The two men in the garage were dismantling yet another car when they heard a single honk of a car’s horn.
One of the men looked through the garage door’s small dirty window and then clicked the button to open the door just enough to allow a man, who was dressed in very dirty and greasy overalls, to come through.
He was the man who had taken away the car parts a couple of days before. Without saying a word, he went straight to the refrigerator on the far side of the garage, got a bottle of beer, opened it, and drank the entire contents. Then he turned toward the two dismantling experts, burped loudly, and said, “Close the damned door; we’ve got business to attend to.”
The door was closed and the two garage men came toward the man in greasy overalls who was drinking another of their beers. They didn’t like the guy and it was out of necessity that they dealt with him.
“Muchachos,” he said, I have very good news. I sold all of the parts yesterday, the entire load. So, I have brought you your share.”
He put the bottle of beer down and reached into the back pocket of his overalls. He brought out a greasy paper bag. For a minute, the two garage men thought he was joking and that he was going to produce one of the smelly, greasy tortas he was always eating. But, instead, he produced a large roll of bills.
“This is your share, amigos—five thousand pesos!”
One of the garage men took the roll of bills and put it in a drawer of the tool box. Without a word, the two garage men then went back to work.
“Hey,” said the man in greasy overalls as he threw the empty beer bottle into a trash can, “aren’t you going to celebrate?”
“Yeah, we’re going to celebrate but not just now,” said one of the garage men.
“And not with you, you cheating bastard,” said the other.
Feigning hurt feelings, the man in greasy overalls said, “OK, I just wanted to invite you to have a few beers so we could toast, you know, to our good fortune.”
“Your good fortune,” said one of the garage men from under the hood of the car they were dismantling.
“OK, if that’s the way you want it, amigos. I just wanted to be friendly with my partners.”
“We’re not your partners, we’re your customers,” said one of the garage men.
“Your suckers, I’d say,” said the other garage man.
The man in greasy overalls chuckled and wagged his head as he hit the garage door button. Without waiting for it to open completely, he ducked under it as he yelled back, “See you later, muchachos. Let me know when you have another load.”
The two men in the garage said nothing. They knew they had been cheated by this pig, but there was nothing they could do. Just as long as it didn’t get out of hand because then they would have to do something about it and the greasy bastard would be found in back of the shack where he lived with a knife in his back and his throat cut.
He had probably gotten around ten or twelve thousand for the parts and the chassis, so an honest thief would have kept only 30% and given them seven or eight thousand. But then, five thousand pesos, even when split between them, was more than most workers got in a month; and, they knew it was no good complaining because if they did, he might rat them to the police. Honor among thieves is a myth.
“Compadre,” said the man under the hood to the other man, “let’s go get a beer. We’ll finish this tomorrow.”
“Si, compadre,” the other man agreed.
They washed up, changed clothes, then they went to the tool box, split the money evenly, and then they headed for the door. One of them said, “Wait a minute, compadre,” and he went back to the tool box, lifted the tray where they kept the heavy wrenches and put about 1200 pesos under it. “My old woman would kill me if I come home with nothing,” he said laughing. His compadre laughed too as they went out the back door.
“Where do you want to go, compadre?”
“Well, you know, we have to go get the other car that the gringos told us about. It is somewhere in the Presa de la Boca so why don’t we go to a nice little bar I know near there? It’s on the road to the Cola de Caballo waterfall. We can sit outside under the trees, have some beer and some tacos, and then, we can pick up the car after that, no?”
They say that there are three lies that all Mexican drinking men utter at one time or another during their lives: “Just one more and then, I promise you, we’ll go”; “I’ll pay you tomorrow!”; and, “I’ll never drink that much again!”
The two friends who took the bus that afternoon to Villa de Santiago, the town that sits on the border of the Presa de la Boca reservoir, would say all three of those lies during the next two days. The first one was said by one of them around ten o’clock that night when the other told him they should go and try to find the car they had promised to pick up. The second lie was said around three in the morning of the next day by the man who had left some of his money in the garage under the heavy wrenches tray—he said it when he needed money to pay the girl in the whorehouse—and the third lie would be said by both forty-eight hours after they had started their drinking binge when they woke up in a jail cell.
The two garage men used their last few hundred pesos to bail themselves out of jail. As they sat on the bench of a bus stop, sweating alcohol under the midday sun, just 300 meters away, near the edge of the reservoir formally known as Presa Rodrigo Gomez, but popularly known as Presa de la Boca, a police cruiser stopped to investigate a car parked under a mesquite tree. The car seemed abandoned. One the policemen in the cruiser called in the license plate number while the other inspected the vehicle.
Fifteen minutes later, Lombardo got a phone call from his friend in the Traffic Department: “They found the car,” he said.
Chapter 22: The Logs of Life and Death
Lombardo didn’t like mysteries. He liked things clear, concise, unraveled. In the Army, he had rewritten some of the training booklets intended for recruits who could barely read and write. He had thrown out all of the patriotic crap, and the convoluted language, and simplified the instructions. He added pictures that one of his sergeants drew. His superiors were miffed, but accepted the fact that they worked better than the stuff sent out by the jerks in the TRADOC, the Army’s Training and Doctrine Command. In Viet Nam too many boys had been killed because no one had explained, simply explained, how booby traps worked or what signs to look for in a trail that had been set up for an ambush.
It had become part of his nature to feel uncomfortable before unresolved things, unexplained events, and unfinished wars. He had become a good cop not only because he was bright (although at times it seemed as if he went to great lengths to hide the fact), but because he disliked loose ends so much.
The murder of this boy had too many of those loose ends, too many blurry edges, and too many people trying to treat it like an
unfortunate accident: “Yes, it was terrible, regrettable,” they kept telling him, “but there is nothing to be done about it and one should wrap it up and move on.”
“Move on? I’ll be damned if I do!” said Lombardo aloud. The policeman driving him back to town just looked at him and said nothing.
He was very angry at himself for being so sloppy. He had assumed that Victor had been picked up by whoever killed him and had not thought about inquiring about his car.
“No hay mal que por bien no venga y vise versa,” was Lombardo’s favorite saying. Something good always comes out of the worst of things, and vice versa.
But, the Director, and the University, and all those trying to put a damper on this investigation had also not asked what had happened to Victor’s car. Since Lombardo had not mentioned it in his reports or made any official effort to look for it, no one else had suspected it existed, so the car was not found before Lombardo could get to it. The car’s location told him a lot of what had happened to Victor; it helped Lombardo form a complete picture of the scene of the crime. He was now satisfied that he knew exactly what had happened to the young man, because the sequence of events of that night had started to line up in his imagination.
