by Tim Baker
The mayor meekly asked how they would ever be able to satisfactorily explain the suicide of the cardinal. Padre Márcio proposed that the coroner and the police chief, both of whom were present, should state that the cause of death was respiratory failure, which would certainly not be false.
Although Padre Márcio’s plan was accepted by the assembled dignitaries, it was resisted by the Church hierarchy, which initially insisted on the right to appoint its own administrator until the Vatican announced a successor. But after a frank exchange with Padre Márcio about the consequences of such a stance, they approved the intervention of the famous stigmatic.
It took Padre Márcio several months to appreciate the scope of the cardinal’s fraud. He had officially tithed ten percent of all charitable donations received by his parish to the Vatican, but only declared a tiny fraction of the actual amount. Padre Márcio now declared a quarter of the real amount, taking personal credit for the sudden surge in donations. He also doubled the tithe to twenty percent. Any lingering suspicions concerning his administration vanished with the increased revenue. As far as Mexican and Vatican officials were concerned, Padre Márcio really was a miracle worker.
He quickly sold the parish’s vast real-estate holdings in the city center to Joaquín, along with swathes of parched land on the outskirts – worthless terrain donated to the Church for inflated tax write-offs. Land that was flat and close to the border. Using a Panamanian law firm which set up accounts with BCCI and Nugan Hand, a newly formed company was incorporated in Delaware with Joaquín as principal and Padre Márcio as minority shareholder. Joaquín was counting on Padre Márcio’s skills to ensure their cheap desert land would be quickly rezoned, with paved roads, electricity, sewage and water facilities provided at the expense of the municipality.
Which of course it was.
The partners resolved to take the same course of action in Tijuana, Ciudad Juárez, Matamoros and Ciudad Real. By 1977, their company was renting land to more maquiladoras than any other landlord in the border region. But the revenue it made from rent was infinitesimal compared to the profit coming in from a new wonder export: cocaine.
51
El Santo
Enrique’s garage is located on the knife edge between the wasteland limit of Ciudad Real and the solar flare of Sonoran wilderness. Mountains serrate the horizon like the battlements of an ancient Saharan fort crumpled by centuries, their blue shadows shifting uneasily away from the assault of the sun.
They drive under a time-blasted sign, lisping on its chains from the motion of their passage. Ahead are three large open sheds crowded with cars and a boxed-in office hiding out back. A chained dog sits with its massive head primed on two front paws, its eyes traveling secretly as El Santo and Oviedo get out of their truck and walk towards its master.
Enrique is standing over the open hood of a stolen 1997 Suburban, staring at the engine as though waiting for a response. He shakes his head with undisguised frustration and turns away, walking to greet the two unexpected visitors, his face going green from the refraction of the sun through the fiberglass roof. ‘I don’t like automatic V8s. Too many problems with the crankshaft whip.’
‘It’s your age,’ Oviedo says. ‘You’re a manual man.’
Enrique laughs, wiping his hands on a turpentine-stinking cloth. ‘You selling or buying?’
‘Collecting,’ El Santo says, his voice sounding shaky, at least to him. The shooting, the surgery and the ride all the way out to this shithole are all taking their toll. Plus he can’t remember the last time he slept. It feels like never.
Enrique stares at El Santo as though his face were a broken radiator and he’s trying to decide if it needs fixing or straight-out replacing. ‘Collecting what exactly?’
‘Unpaid taxes.’
Enrique turns and spits into the oil-stained earth. ‘I reckon you’re going to have to take it up with my boss.’
‘Padre Márcio?’
Enrique doesn’t like that name coming out of a mouth owned by someone like El Santo. ‘My boss is without name.’
‘Right. How long you been working for Padre Márcio?’
‘Long enough to know my respect for him is merited.’
‘Sometimes respect is merited. Sometimes it’s just imposed.’ Oviedo grabs Enrique from behind. Enrique doesn’t resist. ‘How many cars do you turn over a week?’
Sullen silence for response. Then Enrique lifts his chin in defiance. El Santo’s seen this so many times it makes him want to puke. It’s ridiculous how many criminals think they’ve got the martyr bug and need to show it off: how tough they are. How fucking loyal. They think they can’t be cowed. They think they can resist. Think again. It’s the only rule El Santo has never, ever seen broken; the only law that’s always respected. Silence never endures; not when you’re still alive, at least.
Oviedo flings Enrique against the car. Behind them is the snap of a chain going taut as the Rottweiler goes into a frenzy. A car door opens. The hinge side slams shut on Enrique’s hand. ‘How many cars do you boost a week?’
Enrique speaks through sobs. ‘My fucking hand.’
‘It’ll be your head next if you don’t answer the question. How many?’
He spits the word out as though it were a core he was choking on. ‘Five.’
El Santo gestures for Oviedo to open the door. Enrique’s hand flops out and finds a nest under his arm, like he’s trying to hide it from a pickpocket. El Santo goes up to Oviedo, keeping one eye on Enrique in case he tries anything stupid. ‘This doesn’t make sense.’
‘Let me check it out, boss.’ Enrique looks up from his bereaved fingers and watches Oviedo disappearing between rows of cars. ‘You’re trespassing,’ he says, his voice watery from pain.
El Santo would laugh if he didn’t think it could tear his stitches. ‘We’re not trespassing, old man. We’re fucking invading.’ The dog snarls behind him as it stands on its hind legs, choking itself with outrage as El Santo starts to examine the Suburban. One thing’s been bothering him for the last few days – two things, actually, if you count being shot in the gut by El Feo, and even that falls into the other thing that’s been bothering him: nothing in his world is making sense any more. Like this stupid lime-green Suburban. Why heist such a mediocre car? It’s not a collectable; it’s not even desirable. It’s pathetic for parts, and so noticeably ugly to make it useless for a getaway or a hit.
They’re definitely not boosting cars for resale. The volume’s too low and the quality’s not there. So the answer has to be hidden. It’s not the cars but what they can conceal – and what does anyone conceal on this side of the border? It’s got to be a classic Trojan Horse smuggling operation. El Santo starts to tap behind upholstery and peer under floor mats and cargo liners. He whistles to Oviedo, a single piercing dart that even shuts the dog up. Oviedo’s head appears above a battered Ford Ranger. ‘Check this out …’
Oviedo eases his way between the tightly parked cars, hopping onto bumper bars to get to him, the dog watching as he approaches, tensed against its chain, hoping he’ll pass within mauling distance. El Santo opens hatches and displays panels with all the lazy confidence of a salesman taking apart a blender. Secret bays in the side. False bottom in the trunk. Hidden compartments under the seat. ‘Even here, behind the fucking airbag. How did they do that?’
‘Must have removed the valve and initiator.’ Oviedo seems reluctantly impressed, his arm disappearing as he reaches up behind the steering wheel like a vet with a pregnant mare. ‘No inflation mechanism whatsoever.’ He looks up at El Santo. ‘It’s good work, boss. Real classy.’
Not just the workmanship; the entire concept. Real classy. ‘Sure it’s cute, but what about sniffer dogs?’
Oviedo shrugs. ‘Vacuum pack, then can it?’ That sounds about right. ‘If you get caught, you get caught. But I’m telling you, boss, with this kind of work, this kind of craftsmanship, they’re not going to get caught.’
‘Particularly if they cross at
Tijuana.’ Oviedo raises his eyebrows in surprise, which only convinces El Santo even more that he’s right. This fucking priest … El Santo has to give him credit. It’s so simple. It’s so smart. Heist and outfit family cars here in Ciudad Real, then drive them to the coast and cross at Tijuana; get it up to San Diego and LA and Frisco. Move it on to Vegas and Chicago. Or drive eastwards and cross at Brownsville. Get it into Houston, New Orleans and Miami; or up the East Coast, all the way to DC, New York and Boston. Doesn’t matter where you sell it, just as long as you get it out of Mexico. ‘How many kilos do you figure they can shift?’
Oviedo’s eyes turn inwards, counting numbers inside his head. ‘Forty sounds about right. That makes … two hundred and eighty thousand dollars on a fast offload.’
A fast offload is on an uncut basis; an adequate return – if you’re a nervous freelancer; someone like Mary-Ellen. But if you’re an organization, it’s financially unacceptable. And financially unacceptable doesn’t cut it with the cartels. Then it hits him. ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘What is it, boss?’
‘It’s not cocaine. They’re working something else.’
‘Something else?’
Oviedo is looking at him in a way he doesn’t like. A skeptical way. A way that forces him to defensively admit what’s really on his mind. ‘It’s cash. They’re not shipping drugs, they’re moving dollars.’
Oviedo squints at him, a dubious smile just one degree away from disrespectful hovering around his lips but not quite landing. ‘But, boss, they could just wire it out, like everyone does. Route it via Panama or the Virgin Islands into Luxembourg or Delaware. HSBC every last penny.’
Of course Oviedo is right, but does that make El Santo wrong? He thinks about it. Why wouldn’t they just wire it? Because no one knows they’ve got it. But that’s impossible because everyone knows who owns what in la tierra narca. Even the government knows; it’s just paid not to do anything with the knowledge. This is something different. They’re planning something big; something massive.
El Santo doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he certainly wants to be a part of it. ‘Imagine. Forty kilos of hundred-dollar notes. That’s a million bucks a trip. Five trips a week. And how long has this been going on?’ It feels like that priest has been around forever.
‘I don’t know about this cash thing, boss.’ El Santo doesn’t really know either. ‘If they want to cut it and go for the long haul instead of the fast offload, forty K of coke is worth almost five million. Why turn down the possibility of making five mil?’
Good question. Who in their right mind would do that? Unless … ‘What if they don’t care about making money, they just need to transfer what they’ve already made?’
‘Don’t care about making money …?’ This time he lets the smart-ass smile land. ‘Come on, boss. It’s always about drugs. Just look at that fucking cop, Paredes. Bet you his car came from here. They picked him up with forty kilos of coke.’ Forty-two kilos actually. ‘Nothing else makes sense.’ El Santo has to agree with Oviedo. But his gut – or what’s left of it – says otherwise. Fuck sense, this is about dollars.
He walks over to Enrique. ‘What are they shipping in the cars?’
The old man raises his face, but this time in defeat, not defiance. A slow, plump tear slowly slithers its way out of his eye like a worm painfully emerging from a corpse. ‘Bibles,’ he gasps. ‘For China.’
El Santo has to give it to Father Holy Holes, he’s terrific at selling the big lies. This poor slob mechanic with one fucked-up hand truly believes he’s batting for the Christian Cubs.
El Santo walks across to the office at the back of the shed. Even at that hour of the morning, it’s already baking hot and stinks of the old man’s shitty world of kerosene, black tobacco and honest sweat betrayed. There are wooden crates crowded with stolen license plates and some clipboards hanging on the wall with names, driver license numbers and insurance details. Looks like old Enrique hasn’t heard of never mix, never worry. The recklessness of keeping all this cross-contaminating evidence in the same place tells him one thing: they’re certain no authorities are ever going to come snooping. He’s just started leafing through the first clipboard when he hears the shot. He ditches the papers and goes for his gun.
Stupid, fucking careless.
They didn’t bother to really case the joint. There could be ten men out there, with guns all pointing at the office. In the sudden rush of amplified silence that always follows an unexpected gunshot, all he can hear is the whine of the dog. ‘¿Oye?’ he shouts.
‘It’s all clear, boss.’
El Santo pokes his head out, gun in hand. Oviedo is standing over Enrique’s body. ‘Why the fuck did you kill him?’
Oviedo shrugs. ‘He tried to make a run for it.’
It doesn’t look like it was much of a run. ‘Fuck me, I had more questions for him too.’ That dumb shrug again. Could be he’s wrong about Oviedo after all. Could be Oviedo is just one minuscule level up on the evolutionary scale from El Feo. It’s not like anyone is really expecting a turbulent rise in the Henchman IQ Gradient. ‘There are documents in the office. We need them.’ Oviedo goes inside, gathering up papers from the floor and clipboards off the wall. At least he’s compliant. None of El Feo’s excuses about a bad back.
Stepping around the blood, El Santo goes through Enrique’s pockets. He soon wishes he hadn’t. There’s nothing there but a couple of religious cards, a wrinkled photo of two teenagers, and a well-used snot-rag. He wipes his hands on Enrique’s jeans. Oviedo’s already back, the papers in a cardboard box under his arm. El Santo feels rather than hears the low growl behind them. Its intensity is alarming, as though it were coming from a pack of hyenas. ‘Take care of the dog.’
‘But, boss …’
‘You can’t leave a fucking dog tied up in the middle of the desert. It’s not right.’ Saying it makes him feel better about Enrique, lying there outlined by his own blood in the dirt. Not that he really cares. But he likes to think of himself as someone who is kind to animals – at least who presents as being kind. He doesn’t approve of cockfights for instance. He hates them. But he doesn’t stop them either. Profit’s profit.
Oviedo goes up real slow to the Rottweiler and lets it smell the back of his hand. The growling stops. There’s the jingle of chains against metal, and the collar is off.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m going to take care of it, boss, just like you told me to.’
Oviedo is being a dick – that’s not what he meant, and he knows it. ‘Why fucking bother? It’s just another mouth to feed.’
‘You don’t keep dogs to feed them, boss.’ Oviedo grabs the dog by the scruff of the neck and starts leading it towards the truck. ‘You keep them to take care of the scraps.’
El Santo follows the henchman and his new dog back to the truck, the earth underfoot running a temperature in the sun. At least Oviedo stows the dog in the back cabin, where it can’t tear out their throats if it gets a mind to. Maybe El Santo should look into getting a dog himself? He’d call it Héctor or César; some ancient name that speaks of nobility and courage. It might even help calm all the anxiety that’s been coursing through him these last few days, like he’s forgotten to do something important and can’t remember what it is.
Oviedo is slipping the cardboard box with the documents onto the floor in front of the passenger seat when something catches his eye through the windshield. Slow as a hunter, he takes out his knife, the blade flicking open with a cruel whisper. El Santo watches as he moves across the yard, stalking a Lincoln Navigator. He slips the knife in under one of the taillights and snaps it off with a deft flick, then strolls back to the truck, tossing the taillight into the air and catching it, pleased with his prize. ‘My brother-in-law’s is broken,’ he says with a smile. As if Oviedo couldn’t afford to walk into a parts shop and buy a new one. But why buy anything you can steal? The golden rule for all criminals; one he lives by himself. ‘Wh
at do we do now, boss?’ Oviedo asks.
‘We go pay a visit to old Father Fraud before we hit the Heartbreak, and find out what the fuck he’s up to.’ Because, whatever it is, it’s huge. And El Santo’s never been known to say no to huge.
52
Pilar
Fuentes slows as they approach the wrecked car. ‘You’re sure it’s here?’ Pilar stares at the car and then the chain-link fence behind it. In the distance she can see the dog, flattening itself in a patch of shade inside the yard. It raises its head as they pass, as though recognizing her. ‘Absolutely,’ she says.
Fuentes accelerates in the direction of the maquiladora. Pilar watches the landscape that terrified her only hours before now transformed by daylight into a mundane, defeated wasteland. ‘Tell me where you stopped running.’
‘It was after the turnoff to the highway …’
‘We’re already there.’ He looks at the odometer. ‘Nearly three hundred meters. And you’re sure they didn’t take it?’
‘I’ve told you already!’
‘Calm down,’ Juan Antonio says softly. ‘They’re just trying to do their job.’
‘Then why don’t they do it? We have to find her.’
‘We will, I promise.’
How can Fuentes even say that? A promise made is a lie revealed. Gomez’s phone rings. He listens intently. ‘A black Lincoln Navigator with the right taillight out … Of course detain! And the suspects are dangerous, so watch your asses, okay? Bueno.’ He sighs the way someone who has to deal with fuck-ups on a daily basis always sighs, not even aware he’s doing it, and turns to Fuentes. ‘The roadblock is up at Juárez,’ he says.
More incompetent bullshit. ‘You mean it’s only gone up now?’
Gomez stares at her, his eyes dark with mounting irritation. ‘It’s only been fifteen minutes.’
