by Tim Baker
Juan Antonio smiles compliantly. ‘No one can understand us because we don’t understand ourselves.’
‘But we do!’ Pilar protests. ‘We understand we live in the shadow of a great power, we understand that our government and police are corrupt; that the poor will always remain poor. The problem is not that we don’t understand ourselves; the problem is we understand too well.’
‘Acceptance is not understanding,’ Ventura says.
‘Just as understanding is not acceptance.’ Pilar stands up. ‘I don’t have time for philosophy, I have to work.’ She turns to Juan Antonio. ‘And so do you.’
‘We’ll continue this discussion,’ Juan Antonio says to Mayor, embarrassed, as Pilar pulls him after her. ‘Thank you for your support,’ he shouts back to Mayor.
Mayor waves the words away as though they were wasps at a barbecue. ‘I’m counting on you.’
‘That was very rude, the way you left.’
‘Boo-hoo. What’s he counting on?’ Pilar asks, pulling the door open and letting it slam shut on Juan Antonio.
‘The girl.’
‘There’s always a girl where Mayor’s concerned. And that was a woman with him, not a girl.’
‘She’s going to go to work with you tomorrow.’
‘No fucking way.’
‘She needs to see what it’s like.’
‘This is industrial action, not research.’
‘She’s a professional.’
‘I’ve never heard of her. I ask for experienced activists and you give me a baby.’
‘You said yourself she’s not a girl.’
‘We don’t need her.’
‘It’s not your choice. It’s mine, and I’ve made it.’
Fuentes is circling the plaza, his headlights lancing across couples and small groups talking, the beams suddenly strafing across Pilar’s face.
He slows, watching her in the rearview mirror. She’s with a man who has the lean, lethal look of a wolf; dangerous but patient. Knowing when not to attack. From the way they are walking, Fuentes can tell they’re not talking about CTON business. He accelerates slowly across the plaza, Pilar’s figure lost in the shadows.
‘You’ve got to understand—’
‘The only thing I understand is that you’re in love with your own voice; just like Mayor.’ She breaks away from Juan Antonio and embraces the three women who are waiting by the car for their lift to work. ‘Sorry we’re late. We were delayed by his ego …’ She sees the look on his face. ‘Go on. Say it.’
He opens his mouth to speak, then shakes his head and unlocks the car door. Pilar glances around the plaza. For most of the crowd, the night is ending. For her and the other three women, it’s just about to begin. The pop of her door being unlocked sounds like a trap being sprung. So when someone grabs her arm, Pilar spins defensively. It’s the girl. ‘I’m going to help, with or without you.’
Pilar roughly pulls away, freeing her arm. ‘I’m not stopping you.’
‘You’re doing everything you can to cut me out.’
Pilar hesitates. She doesn’t know what Juan Antonio and Mayor have agreed between themselves, but clearly this chica is not going away. Better to control her than leave Juan Antonio in charge. ‘We’re going to need as many mourners as we can get at the funeral.’
Ventura brightens – inappropriately, given the subject matter, but she doesn’t care. ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I won’t give you a chance to.’ Pilar gets in, resting her head against the window and closing her eyes. Juan Antonio watches Ventura pass through the headlights, walking back to the restaurant, then glances at Pilar as he swings the car out, heading towards the highway. She’s already asleep. They’re early. He’ll let her sleep for as long as he can after they arrive.
42
Byrd and Gordillo
Byrd stares across at Gomez’s house. The lights are all out. He turns to Gordillo, who is snoring lightly, then looks at his watch. He curses, fed up with this bullshit. In the general run of things, does it really matter if the ex-partner of Paredes is also involved in drug trafficking? Who really gives a fuck? Paredes is as guilty as hell. And so probably is Gomez. But then again, everyone’s guilty down here, including Gordillo. It’s unavoidable.
Byrd knows exactly what he’s talking about: he fell for it himself, although he can no longer remember the exact circumstances. It was the usual trap – a slow-burn fuse: seduction then corruption. He saw stupid people with lots of money; more money than he’d ever seen before. Unimaginable money. Over time it seemed as though the stupider you were, the more money you could make. Look at El Santo, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like he’s Steve Jobs.
And then the day came when he asked himself the question he’d been managing to avoid up until then: why them and not me? It’s the kind of question you only ever ask when you already know the answer.
He went and got his hands dirty.
It still makes him shudder, thinking of what he had to do to start the ball rolling. But he did it; of course he did it. For the money. What other reason was there? And knowing everyone else did it made him feel more secure, even though it didn’t ease the guilt … Or stop the nightmares.
That’s why this shit about Paredes and Gomez is so weird. It’s easy enough to implicate foot soldiers like them. Even Valdez and the general are vulnerable. When people get taken down, everyone knows who’s behind it; why it needed to be done. There is always a logical reason. But this time there’s nothing. Not to mention these union attacks. The uncertainty is troubling. Someone is trying to make waves. But who? Either someone on the other side of the border wants to destabilize the existing system for their own profit, or another cartel is staging a coup. Credit to whoever it is. The way they’ve set about doing it is perversely ingenious. Forty-two kilos is nothing – a loser’s score these days. But forty-two kilos on a Mexican cop is huge. Bigger than the thousands they would have had to sacrifice otherwise to make the headlines. It’s enough to alleviate suspicion and divert attention.
But from what?
The only answer Byrd can figure: from taking El Santo down. They had worked years to get their man close to El Santo. And when they finally realized their man was an idiot, it was too fucking late. At least El Santo can repeat basic information. But now El Feo has gone dark all of a sudden. That isn’t like him. The challenge of handling El Feo has always been to get him to lie low. To stop him running to them every single day. To shut the fuck up. Byrd can’t be certain, but it sure feels like El Feo has been silenced.
For good.
He starts the car, Gordillo stirring but not waking as he pulls out. He drives down an empty dirt track, the border corrugating the horizon, a dark welt emerging from the deeper shadow of the river. There’s an old adobe ranch somewhere down here. El Feo said it was one of Oviedo’s hideouts. El Feo hates Oviedo: the envy of an imbecile for someone half-smart. El Feo figures Oviedo is running coke on his own. A capital offense. A soldier never does anything on his own. He is meant to be a serf in the perpetual service of his master. Ambition is an abnormality; a warning sign.
Byrd catches something across the Rio Bravo – a small group of people clambering up the river bank and crouching in thin scrub. Then the signal of the coyote’s flashlight, and a dozen more figures emerge out of the muddy waters, struggling up. He watches them for a moment in his side mirror, then decides to call it in. Normally he doesn’t bother, but this will be an easy catch. He can tell from the difficulties they had climbing up the slope that they’re either very young or older than normal. Either way, they’re vulnerable; to the desert, to the coyotes; to shakedown and betrayal further along the line. An easy catch, and he’d be doing them a favor. He’s just reaching for the radio when something runs fast across the road, ghostly and close in the headlights’ beams. There is a sickening wallop.
‘Fuck!’ Byrd hits the brakes and the car squeals to a halt, Gordillo waking with a confused curse. Byrd gets out of the car, bu
t stands still, waiting for the dust to settle, his ears straining; hearing nothing except the engine cracking in the cold night air. He slowly walks around the front of the car. A tan and white dog lies whimpering on the side of the road. He goes back to the car; opens the glovebox.
Gordillo sits up when he sees the gun. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘What anyone would do.’
It’s always like this, when the graft you’ve been paying them finally requires an act that’s more than just looking the other way. They panic, as though realizing for the first time what they’ve become, and that makes them self-righteous. And afraid. Up until that moment it’s been an easy ride. A mortgage paid off, a new car; a girl on the side. All for doing literally nothing. But when the demand comes in for a favor – and it always comes in – then their cozy little world of denial, of I didn’t technically do anything illegal, tilts in ways they never expected, and they reach for stability and normalcy, and life becomes all about the little things, because all the big things have been sold down a river of shit. ‘Shooting that dog will attract attention,’ Gordillo says. ‘If you want to put it out of its misery, use a rock.’
Byrd stares at his accomplice; his tormentor. Just seeing Gordillo fills him with dread. Because Gordillo reminds him of what he’s become. A craven accomplice in somebody’s pocket, to be pulled out like a dirty snot-rag whenever required. He walks around to the dog, but it’s already seen him coming. With a frightened shriek, it struggles impossibly up to its feet, limping away into the shadows of a ridge, heading towards the highway and the maquiladoras. Back towards civilization. As though seeking salvation. Byrd watches for a moment, aiming his gun as it crests the hill, but then it’s out of sight. He gets back in the car. There are tears in his eyes. He had a dog that he loved, a long, long time ago. Before everything inside him turned rotten.
43
El Santo
El Santo watches as Oviedo preps the crew inside the eastern warehouse for tomorrow night’s action. They’re going to go in loud and hard, Oviedo tells them. Chances are not all of them will be coming back alive, but hey – that’s what they do, right? A chorus of adrenaline-fueled agreement: Fucking A!
The morons.
But he has to admit that Oviedo’s got it – that indefinable quality that makes men want to follow you into the worst kind of firestorm. Whether it’s true or not, he makes the crew feel like he has their backs. The coke and the tequila and the cash stacked on the table in front of them don’t hurt either.
Oviedo’s cover story is so convincing that even El Santo feels his blood pressure rising, as though all five liters of his sangre were straining against his little black stitches, ready to burst out in a dark frothing tide. El Feo was a fink, Oviedo shouts – a fucking snitch to the Tijuana cartel. Boos all round. Thank Christ for our brilliant leader and champion bullshit detector, El Santo, who figured it out. Muted cheers, some frightened glances at el jefe.
Make no mistake, Oviedo hollers, you even dream of double-crossing El Santo, and this will happen to you!
Cue the ceremonial presentation of El Feo’s severed head, pulled out of a green trash bag, matted with blood but recognizable. The look in their eyes. Freaked out but totally awed. A moment of power. It almost makes being shot by El Feo worthwhile. Everyone slowly turns to El Santo. Shivers of horror; chuckles of spite. Let’s face it, El Feo wasn’t the most popular of lieutenants. Most of the people here couldn’t give a rat’s ass that he’s been killed. But they knew him. Some of them were talking to him only this morning. And now he’s been turned into a three-dimensional Day of the Dead mask.
That’s some spooky shit, even for these bad guys.
Expectant eyes stare.
El Santo’s on.
He zips his leather jacket right up to the neck. He sure as hell hopes the bleeding has stopped. The last thing he needs is to start leaking in front of fifteen hyped-up gang-bangers. ‘Who do you think deliberately fucked up with that hit on the sindicalista?’ Uncomfortable silence. The cretins have no fucking idea. Oviedo to the rescue: ‘That hijo de la chingada, El Feo.’
‘You got it. And remember that fuck-up with the birthday party at the house yesterday? Who do you think let Los Toltecas get away?’
They’re fast learners. ‘That hijo de la chingada, El Feo!’
‘Right! Now El Feo’s brother is having his own birthday party – at the Heartbreak tomorrow. All of El Feo’s crew will be there. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to take out everyone on the planet who’s carrying El Feo’s traitor genes.’ Eyes flicker in confusion. ‘We’re going to DoA his DNA!’ It isn’t going over. El Santo’s being too scientific. ‘We’re going to kill them all.’ They get that part. Cheers. Catcalls. The heavy-metal music of weapons being racked. ‘Tomorrow the rest of El Feo’s crew joins him in the grave!’ Not technically correct. After tomorrow’s attack, the rest of El Feo is going to be hung from an overpass with a narco banner dangling from what’s left of his neck. ‘Tomorrow we make history.’ He stares out at his men, their eyes not on him but on the stacks of money on the table. Whatever. He figures they’re ready. He turns to Oviedo. ‘Tell them about the clown.’
The joint falls silent. This is serious shit.
They’re going to send in a death clown. That is only ever used for ultimate hits, like Colosio in Tijuana or Cardinal Posadas. The death clown rumors had started at the airport in Guadalajara in 1993. There were dozens of reports from people who said they saw them walking down the tarmac, laughing their sick asses off. Even flight crew and air traffic controllers swore they saw clowns hammering bullets into the cardinal’s car. Oviedo surveys the silence. ‘Green suit. Red hair. Classic. When you see him coming, get the fuck out of his way, because if he even looks at you, you’re dead.’
The flutter of hands like startled birds, all making the sign of the cross. One or two even kiss a scapular. ‘Now collect your pay and surrender your phones. You’ll get ’em back tomorrow, after the hit.’ Translation: we don’t trust a single one of you. They don’t care. They steal secret glances at El Feo’s head, slam shots and snort snow. They’re sliding into party mode, which is what El Santo wants, because come tomorrow, they’ll all be in full hangover mode: morose; head-throb hurting. Nasty-minded and expendable: blindly obeying orders until it’s all over and they can have their hair of the dog clavo.
But right now, the crew is all stoked. Too bad Mary-Ellen has disappeared. She would have ramped things up even more. No matter. The men exchange jokes and insults, slap each other on the back and stare at all the cash piled on the table, calculating how fast they could make it disappear. How fucking fast? El Santo knows the answer.
Finger-snap fast.
And so what? The way things are going, no matter how much you tried, you’d never be able to spend it all. The universe may be contracting, but the narcocosmos? That is one motherfucking expanding galaxy. And nothing – absolutely nothing – stands in its way.
44
Pilar
The repetitive slam and crash of machinery is deafening. Dozens of women work lined up along conveyor belts, sewing together a giant, collective jigsaw puzzle made of pieces of waffle tread, pre-cut leather and garish rubber heels.
At the end of this intricate and apparently random process, materializing like a magician’s misdirected confabulation, appear running shoes. Shoes that high-school students will tug on without bothering to undo the laces when they’re running late for class; that overweight executives will dutifully employ for an hour’s walk every Sunday morning in an effort to atone for that second helping of dessert; that mothers will don before hurrying their children to soccer; that young female interns will use racing the chronometers of treadmills as they listen to Walkmans and formulate ways to avoid the devouring eyes of male bosses; that retirees will pull on sleepily at five o’clock in the morning so they can walk their incontinent, aging dogs, wondering how long they can delay the inevitable euthanasia, avoiding the imp
lications surrounding their own slowly deteriorating condition.
These shoes encompass a universe of opportunities and choices – some wonderful, some mundane; most of them far outside the realm of possibility for any of the women bent over the production line.
Electric light sheens flatly off the whitewashed surfaces, making the women’s concentrated faces with rings under their eyes look like kabuki masks.
Two security guards stand half-aware of the scene, whispering comments about various women’s asses as they smoke cigarettes, their eyes constantly drifting back to a TV inside their glassed-in office. It’s switched to a European football game and the drone of the commentators is constantly spiking with excitement. ‘How is it possible no one’s scored yet?’ one of the guards asks, watching a replay. ‘That goalkeeper is not human,’ the other guard says. Then the image cuts away quickly from the replay to the live action, one of the announcers screaming penalty, penalty as though it were the name of his daughter, trapped in an upstairs bedroom with the house on fire.
Pilar takes the hysterical shouting as her cue, and quickly moves down the rows, handing fliers to the workers she passes. Some of the women take them silently, folding them and tucking them away inside tunics. Others refuse them with a shake of the head, or the way they ignore a street beggar – staring straight ahead, repudiating the reality of the other’s existence. Pilar glances back nervously at the guards. The striker scores, but is ordered to take the penalty again. ‘Encroachment my ass!’ one of the guards explodes. ‘They’re all on the take,’ says the other. ‘Refs are worse than fucking cops.’
Pilar risks the last row, but the women have all been watching her; they have had time to prepare a response – and, as anyone who has ever had time to do that can tell you, the response is always no.
