The Hidden Light of Mexico City

by Carmen Amato

  Miguel nodded, clearly pleased that he’d been able to show off his computer skills to the two older men.

  Eddo studied the paper again. “Is there a history? I don’t recall seeing this kind of cartel activity before.”

  “Nothing this sophisticated,” Tomás said. “But it was probably just a matter of time.”

  That the cartel was using modern communications technology to organize drug route activity wasn’t a big surprise, nor was it germane to Eddo’s job at the ministry, but it was the sort of good information they all shared whenever they found it. Eddo focused on the list of userids, each a combination of ten characters.

  1612colcol

  Hh23051955

  BppBB16003

  CH5299xyz9

  44Gg449M11

  The second userid contained a string of numbers that plucked at the back of Eddo’s memory. May 23, 1955. “Fuck,” he breathed.

  “What?” Tomás said.

  “Nothing,” Eddo said, not wanting to say more in front of Miguel. He folded the newspaper again. “Anything we need to do with this? Suggestions?”

  A paint crew, all wearing spattered white overalls, trooped up to the counter and noisily ordered cups of atole to go.

  “Look, I could try to create another userid and get into the page,” Miguel said when the painters left, a nervous thrill in his voice. “Post something and see what happens.”

  “No,” Tomás said. “Whoever is on the other end would know they were hacked and shut it down.”

  “Maybe not,” Miguel protested. “Maybe we could figure out where they are and raid them.”

  “A little early for that,” Tomás said. “How about you try to figure out one of the passwords?”

  “I’m not in this just to be stuck in front of a computer all the time,” Miguel protested.

  “You’ve done a great job, Miguel,” Eddo said. “But I agree with Tomás. Let’s just watch this for awhile. Try to crack the passwords.”

  His voice was low but the authority was unmistakable. “Okay, jefe,” Miguel said, obviously mollified by the praise. He stood up. “I’d better go. Got to change and get to the office.”

  “You know how to get out of the neighborhood?” Tomás asked.

  “Yeah,” Miguel said. “Thanks for breakfast, jefe.” He grabbed his backpack and left, looking for all the world like a typical barrio macho looking for a day’s work in Los Olivos instead of an honors graduate in systems engineering with an office job in a Colonia Cuauhtémoc high-rise.

  “Smart kid.” Eddo watched Miguel blend into the crowd near a bus stop. “But impatient.”

  “He’ll learn,” Tomás said. He tapped the folded newspaper on the tabletop. “What didn’t you want him to know?”

  “One of the userids,” Eddo said. He opened the newspaper again and showed Tomás. “It’s Hugo de la Madrid Acosta’s birthday.”

  Tomas’s eyes opened wide as Eddo refolded the paper. “Are you sure?”

  “Big party in the office last May.”

  “Well.” Tomás took a sip of cold coffee, obviously nonplussed. “Hugo involved with some weird cartel communications plan. Supports your investigation, doesn’t it?”

  “Still circumstantial.” Eddo jammed the newspaper into his own backpack. “Would anyone really be so obvious as to use their own birthday?”

  “Got to be something easy because you can’t write it down.” Tomás caught Eddo’s eye with a meaningful stare. “Or you’re too fucking arrogant to think anybody would ever catch you.”

  “Madre de Dios.” Eddo knew in his gut that Tomás was right. Hugo had lived at the top of Mexico’s power pyramid for a very long time. It would be easy for him to think he was untouchable, invulnerable. Or maybe the cartel represented the ultimate thrill; a game full of excitement and risk, something to alleviate the boredom of being wealthy and successful and predictable.

  Tomás shoved aside his coffee cup. “I’ll ask Vasco if he can find out which Mexican companies use the website to post content. Maybe somebody using the site officially set up the piggybacking arrangement.”

  Vasco Madeira Suiza was a senior official in the Attorney General’s office, the third member of their triumvirate.

  “Wait.” Eddo leaned forward, wanting to make sure Tomás realized how serious this thing was going to get. “El Toro’s got a long arm.”

  Tomás threw him an annoyed look. “What am I? Suddenly stupid?”

  “This is my job. My investigation.” Eddo paused, trying to find the right words. “If Hugo’s in with the cartel and they come after me, I don’t want anybody else to go down, too. You shouldn’t be involved. Or Vasco. Any of the others. That way you and Vasco can keep things going even if I’m gone.”

  “Shut up.” Tomás glowered at him. “You know why we’re all involved. Vasco will say the same thing.”

  Eddo shook his head. “This could get bad. You know the cartels are going after family members of the cops and military up north. If this is Hugo and he’s really in with El Toro . . .” He let the notion hang in the air, unspoken.

  Tomás shrugged, the heavy shoulders moving easily. “We’ve handled worse.”

  Hugo de la Madrid and the El Toro cartel. He’ll learn of this investigation and when he does, you’re a dead man. A dead man.

  “I’m not so sure,” Eddo said.

  Chapter 7

  On Tuesday morning, Luz arranged flowers while Rosa hauled clothes out of closets and bagged up everything that Señora Vega decided to throw out. The closet rampage had progressed to Francesca’s room when Hector took Luz to the Colegio Americano for Victoria’s swimming lesson. Luz met the little girl at the school’s aquatic facility, got her suited up, then carried Victoria’s towel and backpack to the bleachers.

  The little girl scampered over to her class. The swimming teacher was Coach Carlos, a muscular young man who taught the children by walking along the edge of the pool in tight warm-up pants and no shirt, flexing his biceps. Most of the mothers sitting in the bleachers during swim lessons couldn’t keep their eyes off him. There were far more maids than mother in the bleachers, however, all staring at the Coach Carlos show. Luz usually looked, too, although he was cocky and arrogant and way out of her league.

  Coach Carlos said something to Victoria. He lifted her into the water, the muscles in his back rippling as he bent. He probably has lots of parent-teacher conferences, Luz thought. She pulled her eyes away and opened Victoria’s backpack. English homework again.

  When the lesson was over Victoria ran back to Luz to be dried off. They went into the locker room and Luz dressed Victoria in pajamas and robe for the ride home and an early bedtime.

  They were walking toward the front gate of the school, where Hector waited with the Suburban, when Luz heard the click of high heels on pavement. A hand tapped her on the shoulder.

  It was Señora Portillo, with her son whining next to her and the Portillo’s chauffeur walking behind with the boy’s backpack and swim bag. Señora Vega and Señora Portillo were friends, part of a circle of beautiful coffee-drinking women who met regularly at the upscale Café O on Monte Libano in Lomas Virreyes.

  “Luz de Maria, are you free to work for me the Saturday after next?” Señora Portillo asked. “I need some extra hands for Enrique’s birthday party and Selena said you can sometimes be helpful.”

  “Saturday after next?” Luz verified.

  “Yes.”

  Luz was off again that weekend. If she worked for Señora Portillo on Saturday it meant she could not go home. But it also meant another 200 pesos and that was a real windfall so Luz said yes.

  “Alberto can pick you up.” Señora Portillo indicated the chauffeur. She extended a piece of paper to Luz with the date, time, and address on it. Her attention immediately refocused on a high-heeled mother strolling by who was obviously a friend.

  The chauffeur nodded at Luz as his employer chattered to her friend. He was a blunt-faced tank of a man poured into a sharkskin suit. Almost c
ertainly a former boxer. “I am Alberto Gonzalez Ruiz,” he said.

  He spoke formally, but his diction was sloppy. Luz had the sudden silly thought that he probably had gotten hit in the head a lot during his boxing career.

  She gave him a weak half-smile.

  “I shall be pleased to see you that day,” he said meaningfully. Señora Portillo ended her other conversation and Gonzalez Ruiz followed her out of the school gate.

  Luz watched him go, her mouth dry. Chauffeurs made lots of money. Lots. Hector made enough money to support a family and have his own house. Gonzalez Ruiz probably made as much as Hector, maybe even more.

  “I’m not going to that party,” Victoria said.

  “What?” Luz said and fumbled the piece of paper into the pocket of her uniform.

  “I hate Enrique,” Victoria said, skipping a little in her pink chenille robe and slippers, her damp curls quivering as she shook her head. “He always says shitty things.”

  “Don’t say ‘shitty,’” Luz said automatically. As she settled Victoria into the back seat of the Suburban Luz pushed her thoughts beyond Gonzalez Ruiz and wondered what she would do with the rest of that weekend. She couldn’t remember ever having a Friday and a Sunday off in the city with nothing to do.

  '

  “Look at your ass in those jeans, Luz. You look hot.”

  “Dios mio, Rosa, I can’t believe she wants to throw these away.”

  Luz stood on her toes in front of the mirror in the maids’ bedroom and smoothed her hands down the seams of the Dolce and Gabbana jeans. She’d never worn anything so expensive. They fit like a dream. She wore a white silk blouse with gold buttons, too, courtesy of la señora’s closet cleaning, but it was badly stained.

  “Here. Try this.” Rosa rummaged in a trash bag as she sat on the floor by her bed, surrounded by bags of castoff clothing. She handed up a hot pink cardigan with matching velvet buttons and a label that said both “Chanel” and “cashmere.”

  “Where would I wear something like this?” Luz laughed. Pink was an impossibly impractical color. La sopa would leave the sweater peppered with soot.

  “Don’t be such a stick, Luz,” Rosa said. “Just put it on.”

  The sweater was soft and beautiful and made Luz’s face glow. She held her hair back with one hand and a stranger in designer clothes looked back at her in the mirror. “Dios mio,” she said.

  “Nice,” Rosa agreed. Señora Vega had consigned the bags to the trash but the younger maid had quietly hauled them up the back stairway after the Vega family had retired for the night.

  “We can’t keep this stuff,” Luz said. “If she found out we’d even opened the bags she’d fire both of us.”

  “We’re throwing tons away.” Rosa gestured at the bags. “Nobody will miss a few things.”

  Luz shook her head. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Ricardo the streetsweeper is going to collect the trash, open the bags and sell everything,” Rosa pointed out. “He’s going to make a fortune. And he didn’t have to do any of the work.”

  “I know.” Luz bit her lip and looked in the mirror again at the slim woman in the dark jeans and bright sweater. She’d never worn anything so beautifully made, with such exquisite fabrics. “But la señora--.”

  “Has Señora Vega ever said not to take things out of the trash?”

  “Well, no,” Luz said, wavering. “Not exactly.”

  The handbag pushed her over the edge. It was a big Prada tote with tan leather on the sides and matching handles long enough to go over the shoulder. The front and back were some sort of multi-colored abstract patterned fabric with beads and sequins randomly scattered throughout the design. It was colorful and elegant and big enough to carry her sketchpad. In her mind’s eye Luz saw herself carrying it into the Tamayo Museum, an important artist with her chin held high and things to discuss with the museum director.

  In the end, she kept the jeans, pink sweater, stained blouse and the tote, plus a black cardigan, matching tee, and a Hermés scarf with swirling shades of pink and tangerine. Rosa kept a few tops and two of the purses. There was some old makeup, too; Luz took a charcoal gray eye shadow, pale pink nail polish, and a rosy lipstick Rosa said was boring. Rosa liked bright eye colors like violet and blue, and fuchsia and burgundy for her nails and lips.

  They bagged up the remaining clothes, most of which were too small, and brought them back down to the kitchen. Trash went out first thing every day for Ricardo to pick up. Nothing was left out overnight when the wild dogs from nearby Chapultepec Park roamed the streets.

  Luz and Rosa ended up on the floor in their nightgowns, yawning and painting their toenails.

  “Would you go out with the Portillo’s chauffeur?’ Luz asked as she admired the pale pink polish against her skin.

  Rosa looked up from her toes. “The really big guy? Wears those shiny suits?”

  “Yes.” Luz started on a second coat.

  “I’m not sure I could imagine doing it with him,” Rosa said meditatively. “He probably weighs a ton.”

  Luz jerked her head up. “I just asked about going out with him, not about sex.”

  “Who goes out with somebody and doesn’t think about sex with them?” Rosa countered with a grin. She considered her toes with their burgundy polish. “He’d be the kind who gets all sweaty. And make grunting noises. Or fart.”

  Luz laughed but it took an effort. She walked on her heels to the bathroom and made a dye bath with coffee grounds to salvage the stained white blouse. The silk took the dye beautifully and darkened to a caramel color, completely covering the stain. After she rinsed it in cold water a dozen times it didn’t even smell like coffee anymore.

  Later in the dark, Luz thought about Gonzalez Ruiz, panting and heavy, pressing down on top of her. He seemed to be a simple man, who’d definitely looked at her with interest as if he was looking for a wife. Employers liked husband-and-wife teams, especially if they were both well trained. And if she worked for the Portillos she’d only have to clean up after one whining child instead of three.

  There would be money for the new baby, and Lupe’s priest, and college for Juan Pablo and Santa Catalina for the girls and coffee with milk whenever they wanted. Really, Gonzalez Ruiz was the answer to her prayers.

  Luz cried silently until she fell asleep.

  Chapter 8

  Max Arias slid onto a stool in front of the dimly lit and elegantly appointed bar in the Hotel Arias. His cousin Alvaro was the bartender, a slim and serious man who’d worked at the hotel his entire adult life. Max put his ever-present planner and cell phone on the bar and slipped off his suit jacket.

  Alvaro held up a bottle of ruby port, Max’s favorite. “Are you off duty?”

  “For a while,” Max replied and gestured for Alvaro to pour.

  There was no one else in the bar at this hour of the afternoon, although it would fill with young professionals in the evening. Max had eaten lunch with his father in the hotel dining room, keeping a discreet eye on Lorena and her latest conquest at a corner table. The afternoon would go the usual way; Max was sure, meaning he had about two hours to himself.

  “She’s upstairs?” Alvaro asked. He set a cloth coaster and a glass of port in front of Max.

  Max nodded and drank. The port was rich and smooth.

  “They’re never going to elect a whore, you know,” Alvaro said. He took out a cloth and mopped the gleaming mahogany surface of the bar.

  Max grinned and set down the glass. “All politicians are whores.”

  Alvaro shook his head, unsuccessfully suppressing a smile. “Another package was delivered for you while you were eating,” he said. “I put it in your father’s office.”

  “We’re the unannounced campaign headquarters, you know.” Max raised his glass in a toast to Alvaro.

  His cousin cocked his head in the direction of the front stairs. “Maybe we’d better start charging her rent.”

  Max gathered up his items and glass and went into his
father’s office around the corner from the bar. It was a large and comfortably untidy place, with the same heavy draperies and dark mahogany furniture as the rest of the small luxury hotel. There was a thickly padded envelope on the desk. He closed the office door, sat in the big desk chair and tore open the envelope. Inside was a sheaf of money orders, all for substantial but different amounts.

  Humming to himself, Max fired up his father’s computer. He navigated to the hosting site, tapped in the userid 1612colcol and his password. He was automatically redirected to the right page. There was a new posting from CH5299xyz9 using the agreed-upon code to indicate another shipment and another from BppBB16003 indicating the shipment was received and forwarded. Using the 1612colcol userid, Max created a posting with the right attachment and announced that the shipment had been finalized.

  He logged off the website, used the computer’s control panel to delete temporary files, and then shut down. Still humming, he went to the heavy wooden bookshelf full of antique books and selected a large old-fashioned corporate accounting ledger. It was one of a set, all identically bound in tan leather and faintly discolored with time and use. The others held three generations worth of hotel accounting, before everything went to computers, but this one had never been used until now. He copied the new posting into the ledger. Next to the entry he wrote out what it had actually meant, noting the amount and the date in the proper columns.

  The column of deposits ran to eight pages. There were nearly the same amount of withdrawals, also neatly recorded.

  Six months ago, Max’s father and uncle had helped Max set up the whole scheme, the two brothers blending their knowledge of the hotel industry with their experience as influential businessmen in Mexico. Max’s father was the manager and owner of the Hotel Arias while his brother, Max’s uncle, owned a major hotel supply service. Max had also been able to draw on the talents of Lazaro Zuno, the software engineer with whom he’d had a discreet relationship for the past five years. So far the entire scheme had worked exactly as planned.