That wasn’t the memory. He really didn’t recall the meeting in the command hooch, or Hayden or the others, or the flight in, or the overnight stay on the steepest slopes, or burying the sensors at the edges of the trail. He had reconstructed all of this tale out of supposition and from what Skelly had said over the years, usually when he was drunk; in other words, he had created a plausible fiction he could relate to himself and others, a literal war story.
What he actually remembered was:
The explosion. The disorienting sound, the soft whump of the shock wave a fraction of a second later.
Green tracer blossoming out of the gloom, the snap of rounds passing overhead. Screams, people running, shouting, and somehow more distantly the percussive pop of weapons firing.
Skelly grabbing at his rucksack, screaming in his ear to move, move, return fire. The cut-down grenade launcher being placed in his hand.
The acrid smell of propellant. A man maddened with pain, screaming God’s name and obscene curses …
The sense of everything slowing down, of his body recovering from the paralysis of fear and perfoming simple operations—pointing the launcher, pulling the trigger, breaking open the smoking breech, inserting another fat sausage-like round; and again.
Taking cover behind an immense fallen tree, firing shotgun rounds at groups of men in green uniforms and pith helmets running by, seeing them fall, knowing he’d killed them, seeing one PAVN soldier raise his rifle and fire directly at him, and knowing, absolutely, irrationally, that he was invulnerable, that no bullet could kill him, the man shooting and the bullets flying overhead, and him struggling to get another round in the M79 and firing almost point-blank into the man, seeing his middle dissolve into a red jam. The man’s rifle flying upward.
And the feeling. They talk about adrenaline, but Marder knew it was much more than adrenaline; it was a mystical cocktail that comes only from this one act, from killing men at the risk of yourself dying, a Pleistocene inheritance, disgusting and marvelous at the same time. Sports, even violent sports, were just a pale shadow of this. Why they’d never abolish war.
* * *
“Hey, buddy.”
Marder felt a hand on his arm, shaking gently. Skelly’s face was there, but strangely it was not covered in sweat and red dust. It did not have the unique expression melding terror, rage, and control that was Skelly’s face in combat.
“You back with us?”
Marder shook his head violently and shuddered. “Jesus! I was somewhere else.”
“Yeah, you were muttering and waving your arms around. You were scaring the girls.”
Marder looked around. Amparo, Lourdes, and Pepa were standing frozen on the terrace, staring at him, looking like the decorative extras in an Antonioni movie tableau. He wondered vaguely where his daughter was.
“You ought to put away the pistol too, chief.”
Marder stared at the gun in his hand—his father’s .45—and dropped it on the table.
“How’re you feeling, chief?” Skelly asked. “The margos going down pretty good?”
“I was back in the war,” Marder said. “It was shooting those guys today. It was that firefight we got into in the blasted forest. When Hayden and Lascaglia got it. And we hauled Pogo out. I remember—I mean really remember it, but in flashes. I mean, I know what happened, but just now I … it was like I was there.”
“What happened?” This was Pepa, coming over, offering to sit, getting the nod, sitting down, and pouring herself a drink from the seriously depleted pitcher of margaritas. “Marder here was having a flashback,” said Skelly. “We were in Vietnam together.”
“Really,” she said. “A particularly stupid war, even among American wars.”
“Yeah, but the part we were in wasn’t stupid at all. We were protecting an indigenous people from a nasty regime that wanted to exterminate them, but somehow that cut no ice with the fine liberal sensibilities of the people who wanted us to leave. In the particular instance Marder is referring to, what happened, since you asked, is that a small party of Special Forces and montagnards ran into a reinforced company of PAVNs—North Vietnamese regular soldiers—who just happened to be in the area looking for just such operations as the one we were on. One of our people touched off a trip-wire mine, and we had a running firefight up a mountain.”
“It was foggy,” said Marder, “so we couldn’t call for air support and we were out of artillery range. I thought we were dead.”
“War stories bore me,” said Pepa, “especially ones from lost wars.”
Skelly ignored her. “Yeah, we were dead. A lot of us were actually dead by then. And then the wind picked up, the fog blew away, and a Spectre gunship that had been loitering in the area came zooming in and blew them up. There was no foliage and—”
Skelly stopped and looked off into the distance, as if had just remembered an appointment.
“—and I have to agree with the señora here. War stories are boring. I was going to take Statch around the island to look at some of the things we got going, she being a real live professional engineer. You want to come?”
“I would if I could walk,” said Marder.
“Then I’ll see you later,” said Skelly. He nodded to the reporter. “Señora. I’ll try to think up something more entertaining for next time.”
* * *
“What a strange little man,” said Espinoza, after a drink. “This is a good margarita. I’m surprised. What does he do, your friend?”
“He runs a security firm.”
“That could mean anything. It’s like import–export.”
“True. But Skelly is unusually close about his business dealings. He spends a good deal of time in Asia.”
“And you—you’ve retired from book editing, you said, and you’re here to enjoy the sun and fun, taking the precaution of bringing an armory with you. Obviously you’re under no obligation to tell me what you’re really here for, but I would appreciate not being treated as a fool.”
“I had no intention, Señora Espinoza—”
“In fact, if you’re going to survive much longer in this lovely resort, you will require some information about the various players. Perhaps we could arrange a trade.”
“Fine, but I’m sure my information is not nearly as rich and valuable as your information. It would hardly be a fair trade.”
“We’ll see. And call me Pepa, like everyone else does. Señora Espinoza is my mother.”
“I see. And how is your mother, Pepa?”
“She’s fine. She has a job in the Ministry of Culture and gives her old clothes to her maid. A model of socially responsible bourgeois womanhood.”
“And your father. Is he also a model?”
“Yes. He’s Cesar Teodor Espinoza.”
“The architect?”
“That one. He travels a good deal and is generous to his wife and his several mistresses. No one could ask for a better father.”
“I sense a tone of disaffected sarcasm.”
“You sense correctly. I was raised in surroundings insulating me from the reality of my country. When I grew up, I decided to change that, to actually live in Mexico and not in the international icing that frosts its upper layers, and, if I could, as a journalist, to rub the faces of my class in the realities of their unfortunate nation.”
“And how is the rubbing going?”
“Indifferently. It was scandalous when I became a telenovela actress, and, if possible, the scandal was doubled when I became a reporter on the narco beat. My mother’s friends don’t mention me to her anymore, as if I were a whore in the Red Zone. My father thinks it’s amusing that I am playing at journalism and is always asking me when I’m going to forget all this nonsense and get married.”
She finished her margarita, lifted the pitcher as if to pour another, then set it down with a metallic clang on the tin table, leaving her glass empty.
“I believe that is sufficient information about me. Oh, one other thing: I despise Ameri
ca. I despise your policies on drugs and immigration, the unconscionable hypocrisy, and I find that most Americans are exactly what one would expect from citizens of such a disgusting and destructive nation. Now, tell me why you are here in Playa Diamante. And no quotes from Casablanca, if you please.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I was going to open a saloon and call it Rick’s. But you can call me that, since we seem to be on an informal basis now. Why am I here? The short answer is, my late wife was from here. I brought her ashes back here to be interred in the family crypt in La Huacana. Aside from that, I felt I needed a break. And, unlike you, I love my neighbor. I love Mexico, the top parts and the bottom parts. I love it as only an exile can love his country, even though it’s not my country. I stole my wife from here, an act of selfishness I’ve always regretted, and so when I decided to retire, I chose to come here.”
“You chose to come equipped like a small army, with an apparently deadly henchman in the ‘security’ business? And a cannon? I think you’ll have to do better than that.”
Marder laughed. “What can I say? Skelly attached himself to me without my invitation. You should ask him what he’s doing here and why he brought his cannon along.”
“Perhaps I will. Why did you buy this particular house?”
“It was on offer, and the price was right. A bargain, in fact.”
She looked at him closely. “Interesting. You’re lying about why you came but not about your reasons for buying this property. Let me ask you something: Have you been threatened at all since you came here? I mean aside from the events of today, which I suppose were directed at me.”
“Yes. Early this afternoon some men came and told us to get out.”
“Did you get their names?”
“Yes. Gasco and Crusellas. They said they worked for Servando Gomez.”
“Well, in that case, you’re in trouble with the Templos as well as La Familia. I wouldn’t like to be your life-insurance company.”
“And the Templos are…?”
“An offshoot of La Familia. You know who they are, don’t you?”
“The drug gang.”
“More than a drug gang. A drug gang with religious pretensions, which is just what Mexico needs, another murderous cult justifying their crimes as ordered by God.”
“Are they actually religious?”
“No one in Mexico is religious. Oh, there are some elderly ladies, I suppose, but besides that the Church has always been a racket to keep the people distracted while they’re raped every day by their rulers. It’s the same here.”
“I’m religious,” said Marder mildly.
She didn’t seem to register this statement. “As far as La Familia is concerned, one of the early jefes got hold of some American evangelical’s book of nonsense about how to be a heroic Christian man, and now they all read it and quote from it while they do their murders, which naturally are all defined as God’s justice.”
“These are the ones with the big crucifixes and the rosary bracelets?”
“Yes. The fine distinctions among the Christian sects elude them. In any case, one has to ask, why the current violence in a dinky little tourist town like Playa Diamante?”
“A rhetorical question, I hope.”
Pepa sniffed and rolled her eyes. “About six months ago, the police killed Nazario Moreno, the jefe of La Familia, and there was a falling out among the subordinate leaders. Street signs went up all over the state, declaring that La Familia was no more and that the altruistic responsibilities of La Familia had been assumed by a group calling itself the Knights of the Temple—Los Templos—after the medieval order. Some of the plaza bosses went over to the new organization, and others stayed loyal to the original La Familia structure. Obviously, most of the action is up in Morelia and the north, but down here the big prize is the port at Cárdenas. That’s where they import the chemicals they use to make methamphetamine, along with other dope from South America. The jefe of Cárdenas, Melchor Cuello, stayed loyal to the remains of La Familia. The jefe of Playa Diamante went over to the Templos.”
“This is Servando Gomez?”
“Yeah. El Gordo, as he’s known to his many friends. The rivalry between Cuello and Gomez is the root of all the recent killings around here. Of the two, Cuello is the most violent. They call him El Jabalí, the Boar. His trademark is the dumped torso with the crimes of the victim scrawled on the back in green marker.”
“That’s useful to know,” said Marder. “What’s the trademark of El Gordo?”
“The Templos display the head among a geometric arrangement of severed limbs, the legs on either side and the arms in a cross in front of the head. The eyes in the head are always propped open with toothpicks, and they stick a scroll in the mouth with the reasons for the execution. Another example of our quaint Mexican folk art.”
“No torso?”
“In the sea, or so it is believed. In any case, all this theatrical posturing and violence is not the interesting part. The interesting part is the sociology and the economics. Sociology, because it is the ambition of every Mexican bandit to become respectable. This has always been the case. Every man in Mexico, in his secret heart, wishes to become a chingón and to render every other man the chingada. In order for this to become manifest to the whole world, however, he must have the young blond wife, the big house in Chapultepec, the yachts, the foreign vacations. But they cannot have these very easily or securely as long as they are narcoviolentes. So they must find a way to get out from under the burden of being gangsters, or at least to ensure that their sons do. These men are very indulgent of their sons. Having a son who is a handsome playboy is almost as good as having the blond wife.”
“Do Gomez and Cuello have playboy sons?”
“Gomez has two, who go to an expensive high school in San Diego, where they drive hundred-thousand-dollar sports cars and date cheerleaders. Cuello’s son, Gabriel, is right here. He has little interest in being a playboy. He likes being a gangster, and I’m sure it’s a grave disappointment to the old man. He’s known as El Cochinillo, the Piglet. But El Jabalí has several daughters being finished in Europe as we speak. He will have to be content with respectable grandchildren. Or perhaps not; perhaps he wants to make the transition in his present incarnation, like a bandito bodhisattva.”
Marder grinned and thought he saw a little softening in the woman’s severe expression. He wished to see her smile. “That’s very good. You should try journalism. How is he going about this transition?”
“He’s been investing. He’s become a so-called partner in a number of legitimate businesses. He has interests in hotels, in agriculture, in shipping, in transport. He owns the cab company here and a bunch of bars and restaurants. He contributes to political campaigns and uses his people to rough up or kill reporters who write against his interests. And still the dope money comes rolling in, because the demand for dope in El Norte is insatiable—the only thing greater being the hypocrisy of your government—and therefore the cash position of his organization is increasingly perilous. It is hard, even in Mexico, to spend ten, twenty million a month without a declared source of income. So they must find a laundry for this money, one that does not involve traceable bank records. And what is the best kind of laundry? Do you know that, Rick?”
“Well, with the American mob it was distilleries first and then casinos. Vegas and so on.”
“Casinos, exactly! Now, did you know that Playa Diamante was a marine turtle sanctuary?”
“No, I didn’t. But I’m happy to hear it.”
“Yes, every year in the summer and early autumn, the olive ridley turtles come up on this beach to nest, and therefore the beach frontage is closed to development. Obviously, Mexican zoning officials are eminently bribable, but environmentalists are watchful, and there would be an international scandal should new development be permitted. There is one exception, however, a large tract that was grandfathered in as a developable area when the refuge was established. It was an offshore
island, and for some reason the turtles don’t nest there.”
Now she gave him the smile, which Marder thought was a good one, a charming one, although she meant it as malicious.
“You mean here? Isla de los Pájaros?”
“Exactly. And when two heavily armed American strangers arrive and immediately defend it against both the Templos and Cuello’s people—”
“I didn’t defend it against Cuello’s people. I was protecting you. I had no idea that gangsters wanted to build a casino on my property.”
She seemed about to say something, caught herself, and said something else: “And now that you know?”
“Now that I know, I will finish getting drunk. Then I will be hungover. Then I will decide what to do.”
“What about me? How am I going to get back to my crew?”
“That’s for you to decide, Pepa. We have plenty of bedrooms here, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Or you can go. This isn’t a prison. Say, Amparo!”
He held the pitcher up to hail the housekeeper, who came over and took it.
“Could you fill that up for me again, dear,” said Marder.
“Certainly, Señor,” she said, taking it from him.
“Where is my daughter, do you know?”
“She is out in the colonia with Señor Skelly,” she reminded him. “I think they are moving the well, as you ordered.” She paused, regarding Pepa Espinoza, and asked, “At what time would you like to have your supper, Señor? How many will there be, and what would you like to have?”
“Roasted pig,” said Marder. “And everybody will eat.”
The Return: A Novel Page 16
