Money Matters

by Brian Finney

  “Dos XX Amber, Hernandez, por favor.”

  “Naranjada, para mi.” I tell him, flaunting my limited Spanish.

  “I thought private eyes drank nothing but neat Scotch?” Eduardo teases me.

  “They also spend an inordinate amount of their lives recovering from hangovers,” I reply.

  After a quick perusal of the menu, Eduardo orders chicken breast in mole poblano, and I order roast vegetable tacos with salsa verde and cilantro.

  “So. The Baja Cartel,” Eduardo begins, dipping a chip into the bowl of fiery salsa. “It used to be the largest narco-trafficking cartel in Mexico. It started on the west coast in the late 1960s and spread to seventeen Mexican states.”

  “Which drugs does the cartel sell?” I ask.

  “Mostly Mexican marijuana, Colombian cocaine, Southeast Asian heroin and methamphetamine into the States. They’re the ones who started digging tunnels underneath the border. They also use small planes and submarines.”

  “The Cartel’s main rival is Los Zetas, a violent cartel that has recruited deserters from Mexico’s elite security forces. The war between the two factions has badly cut into the Baja Cartel’s profits, even though the Baja Cartel has penetrated not just the Mexican federal police and military, but deep into the Mexican government itself.”

  “Which puts the Mexican president on a par with Dan Granger,” I remark.

  Eduardo grins. “Now you’re catching on.” He pushes the basket of chips toward me. “Please dig into the chips before I eat all of them,” he urges me.

  “Thanks.” I take a couple and push the basket back.

  “This corruption has been going on for decades,” Eduardo continues. “It started long before Calderón began his phony war on the drug cartels. But now, to compensate for their recent downturn in drug profits, the Baja Cartel has taken to kidnapping and smuggling illegals from all over Central and South America. That is, besides stealing oil from Mexican pipelines. They have commandeered most of the operations of the previously independent coyotes and turned this into a multibillion-dollar-a-year business. The Baja Cartel is even stealing truckloads of ‘chickens’—as they call their human cargo—from their rivals. Then they charge the immigrants a second fee, which often can only be paid back through prostitution or forced labor—up to $4,500 for getting them to the US and providing them with fake papers.”

  “Where do the immigrants get that kind of money?” I ask.

  “Family savings. Mortgaging the family house. Selling the family car.” Eduardo shrugs at me. “Human smuggling is their major revenue source between the two marijuana-growing seasons. They grossed two billion from it last year. The cost is high. Seven thousand people died last year in the war between the cartels.”

  “How horrible,” I say.

  “American politicians play on the fear that the same kind of violence will break out here—unless we ship out the illegal aliens, all of whom belong to the cartels in the politicians’ minds. You can see these gangsters bent over double in strawberry fields all over the state plotting their next attack.”

  We grin at each other as our lunches are delivered. The spicy hot aroma rising from the plates awakes my appetite.

  “Which brings us back,” I say, “to Dan Granger.”

  Eduardo’s face contorts with anger. “Jenny, now you’re turning my pechuga de pollo sour with the mention of that lying bastard.”

  Considering Eduardo’s life’s work, he has every reason to be angry at Dan for his fearmongering lies. His passion warms me. Is that because I’ve grown so tired of Gary’s lack of emotion? Or my own?

  Our instant empathy makes me feel I can trust him with information I would normally withhold from someone I’d just met.

  “I share your feelings about him. I despise what he stands for, and I also despise him as an individual,” I say.

  “You would despise him even more if you knew what I recently learned.”

  “And what is that?”

  “This is confidential, Jenny. But I believe I can trust you, and it might help you in your own search.”

  “Now I’m really interested.”

  Eduardo leans forward and lowers his voice. “Two weeks ago I was contacted by a disgruntled staffer in Dan Granger’s campaign team. Let’s call him Steve. Steve told me that Dan Granger had had lunch with Jorge Valdez earlier this week. Steve knew who Valdez was because he used to work for the DEA. He was outraged that Granger would have dealings with a member of the Cartel. Two days later Dan Granger told Steve to open a personal checking account under a pseudonym so that he could deposit in it a check from Dan’s brother. That’s when Steve quit.”

  “That’s unbelievable.”

  “I was skeptical myself. But he showed me the bank’s confirmation of the new account. It was opened under the name of David Smithson. Clearly an illegal campaign contribution”

  I lean in close, pushing my plate aside. “On my job I saw a video of Jorge arranging to invest a billion dollars in one of Todd’s hedge funds.”

  “Which one?”

  “Bluerim. It’s a new private equity fund you might not have heard of.”

  “I haven’t,” says Eduardo with growing respect for my inside information.

  “On the recording Todd also mentioned the sum of $100,000 as an extra payment. Admittedly that doesn’t definitively connect Valdez to Dan Granger.”

  “No. It doesn’t. But the sum coincides with a figure Dan mentioned to Steve.”

  “What I don’t understand,” I say, “is why a cartel that depends on smuggling immigrants into this country would want to give money to a candidate for governor who’s campaigning on an anti-immigrant ticket.”

  “That’s not so hard to figure. If the state adopts new stricter anti-immigration measures under a Republican governor, the cartels can charge more to bring immigrants across the border.”

  “In politics nothing is what it seems, it seems.”

  He smiles. “And no one says what he means.”

  Eduardo asks for the check and waves aside my credit card.

  It’s uncanny. He seems to be on exactly the same wavelength as me. I feel as if we’ve known each other for years. And all my senses are working overtime. With the first bite of my tacos I could taste every separate ingredient in the salsa—the tomatillos, red onion, cilantro, and chili. The bougainvillea throbs blood-red above me. In the background the strains of musica norteña seem to be playing inside my head. I’m on sensory overload.

  “Really, Jenny, I haven’t had such an enjoyable lunch for ages,” Eduardo says, getting up.

  “I enjoyed it, too. Thank you so much, Eduardo—for the meal and for all the helpful information.” I want to say so much more, but I don’t dare.

  “Please get in touch if there’s anything else I can help you with,” Eduardo says as we take our leave.

  We stare into each other’s eyes. We’ve finally run out of any reasons to prolong our time together. I reach out to shake his hand. Instead Eduardo kisses me lightly on the cheek. Its trace of moisture lingers tingling as it slowly evaporates on my skin long after I return to my car and hit the road once more.

  ✽✽✽

  Back at the apartment mid-afternoon, I’m feeling at once elated and flat. Why couldn’t my lunch with Eduardo go on forever? How very different he is from Gary—outgoing, passionately engaged, socially committed. What was it that kept me seeing Gary for how many years?—was it seven? Good God!

  Maybe Tricia’s constant put-downs of Gary brought out the stubborn streak in me and made me perversely refuse to see his many faults. I know I also tend to avoid taking risks. How ridiculous that I threw away so many years, those irreplaceable years in my twenties, out of sheer obstinacy.

  I still have three years before I turn thirty. What do I want to do with them? What do I want to do with the rest of my life? I know this: I don’t want to waste any more of it on dead-end jobs and dead-end boyfriends. Life, I’m coming to realize, is not just what happens to
you. It is what you make happen.

  I settle onto the couch, attempting to calm myself by watching TV. Instead I find the obnoxious Dan Granger addressing a crowd of Republican businesswomen.

  “. . . we’re all investors in California. We all have an interest in how well it performs. But for the past ten years or more the unions have controlled Sacramento. They’re driving away innovation, driving away business, because now the state has some of the highest taxes in the country to pay for the unions’ grossly inflated pensions and health benefits.”

  This leads me to reflect that, although I don’t have an employee pension and can’t afford health benefits, I’m paying through my taxes for these benefits for others.

  So this is how it works. Granger is making me feel resentful because others are being offered what all of us should be offered. I have always believed that we should all qualify for a pension and affordable health insurance.

  I try flipping through the channels, but I’m drawn back to the coverage of the governor’s race. A crowd of demonstrators outside the hotel where Granger’s speaking is circling the hotel entrance, chanting, “Granger, go home!”

  “Dan Granger began his address to a crowd estimated at 6,000 by downing a shot of tequila,” says the news commentator. “He has been targeting Spanish-speaking voters by inundating Latino channels with political advertisements promising immigrants a path to citizenship. Yet in the primaries he accused his Republican rival of offering them an amnesty, and on English-speaking stations he swears that as governor he would prosecute employers found employing illegal aliens. The latest poll, taken after news broke that Granger has employed an undocumented immigrant, shows him trailing Brown by thirty points among Latino voters.”

  I’ve heard all this before. I turn off the TV and open my laptop, eager to complete my review of the discs from Todd’s house.

  The third card I fast-forward through is from the dining room. I watch Felicia serving Todd and Dan bowls of soup. I switch the recording to PLAY as Felicia leaves the room.

  Todd: “Felicia’s gazpacho is unique. I hope you have a strong stomach.”

  Dan: “You know me of old. I love the hottest chilies. It’s worth the brief moment of pain for the rush of pleasure. It’s like taking crack.”

  Todd “Of course, you’d know all about that.”

  Dan: “Actually I prefer cocaine mixed with K.”

  Todd: “Because?”

  Dan: “Because cocaine is an upper while K relaxes you. Great combination. And you?”

  Todd: “Still an abstainer.”

  Dan: “Your loss.”

  Todd: “Or gain.”

  Dan: “You always did have exceptional self-control.”

  Todd: “And you always had a flair for self-dramatizing.”

  Dan: “That’s why I’m in politics and you’re in the investment business. I’m much too impulsive to run a mutual fund.”

  Todd: “And I’m too cautious—and private—to throw myself into the rough-and-tumble of politics.”

  Dan: “Which is why together we can make anything happen.”

  They fall silent as Felicia reenters, clears their soup bowls, places a plate in front of each of them, and leaves three dishes of food on the table.

  Todd: “Which reminds me: Jorge is wiring me your $100,000 Monday morning.”

  Dan: “Great! That should just about bring my campaign budget back from the red.”

  [So that was what the $100,000 was for, I think.]

  Todd: “Now all you’ve got to do is win the election.”

  Dan: “Damn Gomez. He would have to go and fall off the scaffolding just weeks before Election Day.”

  Todd: “Couldn’t you have bought him off?”

  Dan: “If only. The press caught wind of the accident before I could get to him.”

  Todd: “It has certainly been a setback. But you’ve got a huge advantage in spending.”

  Dan: “Yep. However, I’m still down a small margin in our private polls, Ron tells me. He reckons I have a small lead among independents, thanks to my stance on undocumented workers. We’ll see.”

  So. There’s the missing link between Dan Granger and the Cartel. And I have the hard evidence. I make a second copy for safety’s sake—and because I want to give Eduardo a copy, which will make a great excuse for reconnecting with him.

  ✽✽✽

  I’m on a high, reliving every moment of my lunch with Eduardo and the way we connected instantly.

  Does he feel the same way? Or is he just a polite guy who would have been as engaged with whomever he happened to be having lunch with?

  But what if he’s married or already has a girlfriend? I decide to google him. Entries with his name fill the screen. But none of the links I try says anything about his personal life.

  I decide to treat myself by baking a quiche lorraine, using turkey bacon, leeks, low fat Gruyère, and milk rather than cream in deference to my health. When the timer goes off I lift the golden-brown tart from the oven shelf and place it on a stainless-steel rack.

  While waiting for it to cool I pour myself a glass of Tricia’s expensive Brunello red wine and set up Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” to play on the iPod dock. The song is just ending with, “If you liked it you should have put a ring on it” when Tricia gets home from her day on the ocean.

  “I’m so glad Dreary didn’t want to put a ring on it,” she comments, dropping a designer shopping bag full of her new acquisitions on the rug.

  “You know what? So am I,” I surprise myself by saying.

  “I see you are enjoying my Brunello.”

  “I’m kind of celebrating. Can I pour you a glass?” the new me responds unapologetically.

  “Why not, since I went out specially for it yesterday.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, I pour a glass and hand it to her.

  “It’s definitely worth the effort,” I say. “One of the world’s great reds.”

  “What smells so good?” she asks.

  “I made a quiche lorraine,” I announce. “Want some?”

  “I suppose you used up all the eggs?”

  “It only takes four. You’ve still got two left.”

  “Well, thanks for that small mercy,” she says bad-temperedly.

  “Your trip not work out as you expected?” I ask.

  “Guys! What can I say? Rodney turns out to be a bit kinky. He only likes to do it from the rear.”

  “So?”

  “I mean literally up my rear. As I said to him, how’s that supposed to make me come? But he was too into it to pay me much attention. So the day was not a roaring success.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Your pity is the last thing I need,” Tricia replies with irritation.

  “How about a slice of quiche and some salad?” I ask to calm her down.

  “Great. Let’s have it here on the coffee table. And please turn Beyoncé off. She’s giving me an inferiority complex.”

  I turn off the music, add more greens to the salad, dress it, and cut two slices of quiche for us.

  “Help yourself to salad,” I say.

  Tricia takes a bite of quiche. “You always were a better cook than me. Do you remember that amazing chocolate and raspberry cake you baked for Dad and Mom’s anniversary that time?”—

  How could I forget? I was sixteen. I made it as a surprise. I wanted to bring it out with candles blazing just when Mom was about to serve up dessert. Tricia was late getting home, and I was forced to stage my dramatic entry on my own. They were both oohing and aahing when the front door crashed open and Tricia staggered into the dining room clearly smashed out of her mind.

  “How touching!” she sneered. “Playing happy families?”

  “Tricia,” Dad said, “that’s enough. Sit down and have some cake with us.”

  “Not unless you want me to throw up.”

  “Have you forgotten that your mother and I planned to celebrate our thirtieth anniversary today with the two of you?”

/>   “I’m here, aren’t I?” she blurted out, collapsing onto a dining room chair.

  “If you remember, the idea was for all of us to share a special dinner here—together. Your mother went to a lot of trouble preparing stuffed game hens for us.”

  “I hate game hens. Please don’t talk to me any more about food or I’ll definitely throw up.”

  “Where have you been to get yourself into this state?” Dad asked.

  “I went home with some friends to Glenda’s house after school.” She let out a loud burp. “Her parents were out, and she threw a spontaneous party. Harry made a lethal sangria for us. He had no idea how much brandy to add, and we all got plastered. Don’t blame me. I planned on being back here long before now.”

  “Who else should we blame?” Dad asked.

  “Did you hear a word I just said?” Tricia shocked us all with her aggressiveness.

  “That is no way to speak to your father” Mom said.

  “What do you want me to do? Call him ‘Sir’?”

  “That will be enough, Tricia,” Mom said sharply.

  “I’m not a child. I can say what I like.”

  “No one can just say what they like in this world,” Mom replied.

  “Now we’re going to dispense words of adult wisdom,” Tricia sneered.

  “That’s enough for tonight, do you hear?” Dad said firmly.

  “Excuse me. I think I’m about to upchuck,” Tricia exclaimed, and she rushed out to the bathroom from where ugly sounds of choking, retching, and coughing confirmed her diagnosis all too vividly.

  Mom lost it and broke out sobbing, dripping tears onto her slice of cake. Dad said I could go to bed. I left apologizing for Tricia—of all things.

  Thinking back on it I can understand that our parents’ excessive reasonableness must have made Tricia overreact. How else could she assert herself?

  “Yes, Tricia. I sure as hell remember.”

  “After Mom and Dad had gone to bed that evening,” Tricia says, “I sneaked down and sampled your cake. Sick in my stomach as I was feeling, I still remember how delicious it was.”

  “Mom threw it out next day. It was too painful a reminder.”

  “And how did that make you feel?”