The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  "Perhaps," he suggested, "that is why Frank wanted us to meet. Perhaps he felt that you could overcome your distrust if we could meld intellectually."

  "What is 'meld?' " she asked.

  "To come together," he said quietly, his eyes holding to hers. She tried to stare him down, but could not. After a moment, she rose and walked around to stand behind her chair.

  "Perhaps you would like something cold to drink?"

  "No, I wouldn't." Tony stood and removed his coat. "And neither would you."

  He stepped over and took her in his arms and kissed her for a long time until she finally kissed him back. He felt her overbite with his upper lip and it increased his arousal. His hands went all over the flimsy dress she wore and felt nothing underneath it except her thin, angular body. In one fluid movement, he peeled the dress over her head and swung her up into his arms. He carried her back around to the couch and turned off all but one small lamp as he undressed.

  Watching him from where she lay, Tela thought: This is not for the cause. This is for me. It makes no difference if he is an agent.

  * * *

  Two hours later, in an exhausted afterglow, Tony lay stretched out on the couch, Tela on the floor next to him, legs curled under her, the side of her face resting on his hip, one finger idly tracing an appendectomy scar on his side. She had already asked him when his appendix had been removed, and he had told her it had been in his sophomore year at Stanford. Then he had asked her if she was Monte's girlfriend, and she had laughed and said no, her best friend Amelia was Monte's wife, and that she and Monte were more like brother and sister. Then she had asked him how many girlfriends he had in San Francisco, and he had told her twelve or fourteen, he wasn't sure, after ten it was hard to keep track. For that answer she had slapped him on the shoulder, not too softly either. Then he had asked her if she still thought he was an agent. She thought about it for a time, then admitted she wasn't as sure, but still was not prepared to say he definitely wasn't one. And what about the letter from Frank Barillas? "It could be a forgery," she reasoned. "You people have the resources to do anything."

  "You people? What people?" he wanted to know.

  "The U.S. government."

  Tony could not argue with logic. They fell silent for a while then, with only one small lamp on and the window open a few inches behind closed blinds, hearing an occasional muted voice from the street, listening to barely audible salsa music being played somewhere, feeling the fleeting brush of a breeze now and then.

  After a few minutes, Tony asked, "What is Mara Salva?"

  Tela did not answer for so long that he almost decided she was not going to. But presently she turned with her back to the couch, put her head against his side, drew one of his arms down around her, and told him.

  "During the civil war in El Salvador, there were two major groups that opposed the military dictatorship of the government. The first was La Mara. It was a well-organized and very violent urban gang that terrorized the streets of San Salvador, the capital. Second, there was the FMLN, the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front, that Francisco belonged to. It was made up primarily of rural peasants trained as guerilla fighters, men and women who eventually became very adept in the use of small arms, explosives, and booby traps. The FMLN opposed the military in the outlying areas.

  "The war went on a dozen years. The military could not suppress the two groups, no matter how hard it tried. Even when it formed the death squads, the Sombra Negra, to take people from their homes in the middle of the night to be tortured and killed, the people of the resistance never gave up. More than one hundred thousand people were killed during that war, a thousand a week, and a million Salvadorans fled the country to escape torture and death, as you and your mother did. As I did, and Monte, and many others that you saw at the wake, and Francisco himself.

  "Here in southern California, the refugees from Salvador were not welcomed by the Latinos and Asians already here; we were harassed and abused in many ways. But since there were many who had been members of La Mara, and many others who had been with the FMLN, Francisco saw the opportunity to band them together into one organization for the protection of all Salvadorans. So he formed the Mara Salva, and we soon became strong enough to protect ourselves against any other ethnic group trying to take advantage of us. At first, that was the sole purpose: protection only. Later, when the organization grew and became stronger, Francisco saw ways for us to become diverse, ways for us to help our people back home, ways to prepare to overthrow the government."

  "But I thought the war had ended," Tony said. "I thought the government was all straightened out."

  "You are naive," Tela told him quietly, patting fondly the arm she had drawn across her thin body. "In 1983 a new constitution was drawn up for a representative government like you have here in the U.S. Three branches: executive, legislative, and judicial. An elected president serves a single five-year term. It sounds very good, no? And on the surface, it looks very good. But the fact remains that even with an elected president, the government is still dominated by a small, elite group of incredibly wealthy landowners and high-ranking military officers. Poverty is more widespread today among the rural peasants and urban poor than it was before the civil war began. The government itself is flourishing because it is nationalizing land for export crops, and the world says. 'See how well Salvador has recovered.' But every hectare of land taken by the government, is one less hectare for people to grow their own crops on. Malnutrition among the peasants increases constantly; infant mortality rates increase constantly. Tens of thousands live without electricity, running water, or adequate sanitation. And," Tela's voice became even quieter, "the Sombra Negra still terrorizes the people."

  "Sombra Negra," said Tony. "That means 'black shadows.' What is it?"

  "The death squads," she said. "The men who come in the night and take people away. Men who abduct student demonstrators, union activists, priests, women who organize and demand more for their children. Sometimes the people they take are never heard from again; other times they are found dead somewhere after being horribly tortured—" She shuddered involuntarily and became quiet, shivering slightly as if cold. Tony took her arms and drew her up onto the couch to lie with him, holding her close to warm her.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I had no idea that any of that still went on."

  "It is odd," she said, suspicion surfacing, "that Francisco never told you."

  "Perhaps he wanted me to get my education first, without any preconceived ideas about the plans he had for me later."

  "What do you think those plans were?"

  "Apparently to have me come into Mara Salva with him."

  "To do what?"

  "I don't know. Streamline the operation, maybe, like I would a business that hired me as a consultant. Make Mara Salva more efficient, more profitable."

  "For you to do that, we would have to tell you everything we do, no?"

  "Yes."

  "If we did that, and you were an agent, it would mean the end of us, wouldn't it?"

  "I suppose. But if I were not an agent, and could help, it might be just the beginning for the organization." He brushed his fingertips over the small patch of pock marks on her cheek. "Are you going to take me to Monte and the others?"

  "Don't touch me there," she said, pushing his hand away. "I don't know yet. I must think on it."

  He kissed her where his hand had been and she turned her face away. "I said I don't like to be touched there. It is embarrassing to have a scarred face."

  Rolling on top of her. Tony looked down. "There are no scars on your body. No flaws, no imperfections. Every inch of you is beautiful. And I will touch you wherever I wish."

  Reaching over, he turned off the lamp again.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Tela had Tony take her to a long abandoned drive-in movie theater on the edge of Anaheim. The entrance and exit gates were chained shut, but she had the key to a lock on one of the rear exits and let t
hem in, leaving the gate unlocked behind them. She had Tony park his rental car directly in the center of the big open space in front of the high structure where the screen had once been.

  Earlier that morning, while Tony showered and dressed in fresh clothes from the suitcase he had in the car, Tela had called Monte and told him about the letter Tony had brought her. Monte sent someone to pick it up, then called back a couple of hours later to arrange a meeting at once. It irritated Tela that Monte wanted a meeting so soon. She and Tony had made love a second time the previous night, and again in the morning when they woke up. The sessions had been strenuous, fiery, full of passion— and exhausting. Tela was tired, and when she was tired, she was irritable and cross. It did not help at all that Tony, with his perfect, toned body, was full of vim and vigor and sang in the shower. That was all she needed in her life right then, she groused silently to herself: a macho hombre who knew all fifty-two positions. Still— it had been exquisite lovemaking.

  "When are they supposed to get here?" Tony asked when he parked.

  "They'll get here when they get here," she replied sullenly.

  "What's the matter?" he asked.

  "What's the matter with what?" she challenged. "With me? With you? With the world? What do you want to know from me?"

  "Hey, forget I asked," he said, shaking his head in annoyance.

  Fortunately, they did not have long to wait. Two cars came through the gate and drove over to where they were. Monte, two other men, and a woman got out of one, three men got out of the other. One of the men with Monte was Perico, who had held the gun on Tony at the funeral home, and two of the others were Benito and Armando, who had followed Tony to the airport when he left.

  "We meet again," said Monte, offering his hand.

  "Yes." Tony shook hands.

  "I apologize, but I must have you thoroughly searched for a wire. Go with these two men, please."

  Benito and Armando escorted Tony to what had once been a men's room when the theater was open, but was now empty of fixtures and in total disrepair. Tony was instructed to strip, which he did, to allow the two men to closely examine every garment he wore, then to scrutinize his body the same way. Tela could have told them that they would find nothing, but she dared not. It would have been mortifying to let the men know that she had slept with a man she suspected of being an agent. So she only confided in Amelia, the woman in the group, who was her best friend and Monte's wife.

  The two women were standing off to themselves, talking, when Benito and Armando returned with Tony. Tela would not meet Tony's eyes when he came back, but Amelia looked him up and down at once and raised her eyebrows approvingly at Tela, making her blush and turn away from the men.

  "These people here," Monte said to Tony when he returned and was declared clean of a wire, "are the officers and leaders of Mara Salva, the organization that Tela has already explained to you. Perico, Armando, Benito, and myself you already met at the wake. This," he introduced, "is my wife, Amelia. Tela you also already know. These other two are Ruben and Reynaldo. The eight of us were Mara Salva captains under Francisco Barillas, who was our leader. I was chosen by him to be leader when he died. While he lived, he allowed all of us to vote on any important step the organization considered taking. His vote, of course, was the tie-breaker, if it was needed, which was rarely."

  Monte removed from his coat pocket the letter Tony had brought to Tela the previous night, and which she had sent to Monte that morning to evaluate. Now he handed it back to Tony.

  "We have all read the letter and believe it was written by the hand of our late leader, Francisco Barillas. The purpose of this meeting is to vote whether to take you into the confidence of Mara Salva, as Francisco apparently wished us to do, or to reject you. But I must ask you first whether you yourself desire to become one of us. Do you?"

  "I wish to honor the dying request of my patron," Tony said simply. "If I can be of benefit to you in a cause to which he was dedicated, then I will do so."

  "Very well," said Monte. "Then we will vote. Each of the captains here will vote to accept or reject you. Amelia, I begin with you. Accept or reject?"

  "Accept."

  "Tela, accept or reject?"

  "Reject."

  Both Tony and Amelia looked at Tela in astonishment. She ignored them.

  "Armando?"

  "Accept."

  "Benito?"

  "Accept."

  "Perico?"

  "Reject." He sneered at Tony to punctuate his vote.

  "Ruben?"

  "Accept."

  "Reynaldo?"

  "Accept."

  "Five to two to accept." Monte said. "I also vote to accept, so it is six to two." Again he held out his hand to Tony. "Welcome to Mara Salva."

  * * *

  From the drive-in, they all went in the three cars back to East Los Angeles to a storefront location with a sign above the door which read: EL SALVADOR RELIEF ASSOCIATION.

  "We have this as a legal, registered humanitarian organization," Monte explained as he led them all inside. The front room was an office set up with desks, computers, printers, and other equipment to function as a legitimate operation. "Here we print and distribute material to raise money for needy people back home. We raise very little money, of course, but what we do raise is distributed by the churches in poor areas. Our main work, as you have probably guessed, is altogether different."

  The group followed Monte to a separate room in the rear, which was furnished with a large meeting table, and its walls covered with area maps of California from the northern limits of Los Angeles county south to the southern city limits of San Diego, and east to the Arizona state line. Other maps, on the opposite side of the room, showed the southwestern United States border areas of California and Arizona, next to maps of Mexico, Guatemala, and El Salvador.

  "Our business," Monte said simply, "is the exportation of stolen automobiles, which we sell to the twenty percent of the population of El Salvador that can afford to buy them. We then use the proceeds to buy weapons and munitions to stockpile for the next revolution. This is the way it works—"

  Using the various maps, Monte explained how subordinate members of Mara Salva were trained to steal medium-size sedans from shopping malls and theater parking lots all over southern California. Luxury automobiles were never taken, no Lincolns or Cadillacs, no fancy sports cars, just moderately valued midline Buicks, Oldsmobiles, Pontiacs, Chryslers, and other dependable makes. Four Mara Salva members would go out in two teams in separate cars. When a suitable vehicle was seen being parked, its make, model, and color would be noted by one of the teams, which would immediately leave and begin to search other lots for a similar make and model. When they found one, they would steal its license plates. Then they would search until they found a third similar car, steal its plates, and replace them with the first set of stolen plates.

  "It is tedious, but very confusing to the police," Monte said. The first set of plates is reported stolen, but many times the owner of the second set of stolen plates does not even notice that he now has different plates on his car. So for a period of time, we have a safe set of plates for a matching stolen car— because by then the other team has stolen the original car that was decided on earlier. The theft of the car is easy: one member of the team follows the driver into the mall or wherever, with a cell phone with a line already open to his partner. The partner jacks open the car door, rams the ignition, starts the car, notifies his partner inside, and picks him up at a different entrance while the real owner of the car is still inside.

  "And we have rules," Monte emphasized. "We take no cars from older people or women with children. Mostly we look for guys alone, or two younger women shopping together."

  The safe plates were put on the stolen car, and it was immediately driven out of California into Mexico the same day.

  "There are many places to cross," said Reynaldo. "Tijuana and Mexicali, of course, are the busiest ports of entry from California. Then there are
Nogales and Agua Prieta in Arizona. But in addition to those main crossings, there are many smaller ones: little towns like San Luis Rio, Sonoyta, Escabe, Naco. And they all connect to Mexico Route 2, which connects to the Mexican national north-south toll road, Route 15."

  "There is never a problem crossing the border," Armando took up the narrative. "U.S. Border patrol guards have no interest in what leaves the U.S., only what comes in. And Mexican border guards let all vehicles in without question."

  "Less than two hundred miles south into Mexico," said Monte, "is the city of Hermosillo. It's a nice little city, surrounded by many cotton farms. In this city is a man who has mastered the art of producing counterfeit vehicle identification number plates that are fastened to the top of the dashboard to allow law enforcement officers to immediately identify the automobile's origin and registration. When our people steal the second set of license plates, they also write down the VIN from that car. In Hermosillo, we stop and get a VIN plate with a number that corresponds with the license plate. Then, a hundred and fifty miles farther south, in the town of Los Mochis, is a very talented printer who has duplicate blanks of California certificates of title identical to those issued by the department of motor vehicle. In less than an hour, the driver of our car has a certificate of ownership, with no lien, on a car that now has license plates that match the VIN number."