The clerk handed me the phone, which I pulled away until the cloth cord stretched taut. I pulled out my wallet and unfolded the scrap of paper that I’d tucked inside it. Then I dialed the number on it.
A man answered on the third ring.
“Buenas noches,” I said, “Mario Bravo, por favor.” Before he could ask who was calling, I added, “This is Joe Buonomo.”
He asked me to wait. There was a long pause, maybe two minutes, and then I heard the sound of heels clicking on stone, no doubt some fine Carrara marble, polished by hand for the gilded hacienda of Baja’s smut king. Someone picked up the receiver, composed his voice, took a breath, and then spoke.
It was Bravo.
“Joe. Hello. I am glad to hear from you again. Shall we make a plan for tomorrow?”
“No. We shall make a plan for tonight.”
“But this afternoon we discussed—”
“I know what we discussed, Mario, but I’ve got the money now and I’d just as soon get this thing over with.”
“I’m sorry, it’s out of the question. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Just one more night, that’s all.”
That wasn’t going to work. I tried to force his hand. “Listen, I don’t want to spend one more minute down here that I don’t have to; this place makes my skin crawl. I’ve got your fucking money—that’s what you want, isn’t it? So let’s get this done. Tonight!”
A hot voice came back, peppering me through the line. “Just who in hell do you think you are, sir? You are in absolutely no position to dictate terms to me, certainly not in that tone. Do not mistake my admiration for you for any hesitation whatsoever to grind you into the dust under my heel if you continue to vex me.”
The baritone was rushed but still impressively turgid, with high overtones of arrogance. But I had his attention.
“Okay, listen … I saw something today at the airport, something that doesn’t make any sense and scares the hell out of me.”
“And that matters to Mario Bravo why?”
“Damn it, Mario, something bad is going down out here tomorrow. I saw American commandos prepping a Mexican fighter plane for an assault of some kind.”
“I operate outside the realm of government. And what there is of it down here is of no concern to me—I pay them good money to stay out of my way.”
My voice tightening, I asked, “And what if that government falls tomorrow?”
“I’m sorry, Joe, you’re going to have to do better. Air shows are your department, not mine.”
I squeezed a hand into a fist, started to bang the counter with it, caught myself.
“Is that all? Hello … Joe?”
I was losing him. Everything inside me told me I needed to get Helen back that night, but Bravo wasn’t playing ball.
“Well, good-bye then, Joe. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I went for broke. “Mario, wait!”
For a second I thought he’d hung up. But then I heard him sigh on the line. “Yes?” he said, his voice tapering off.
“All right. I’m going to tell you something now that can’t possibly benefit me … something you may suspect already. I’m in love with Helen. She’s in a lot of trouble, but I am not leaving this country without her. I don’t know what’s going down tomorrow—or where—but I need to get her tonight. Just let me do that. Please, Mario.”
He didn’t speak for a very long time. What I’d told him was true but unlikely to register in his calloused heart. My better hope was that I’d sown enough concern in him for the well-being of his hundred grand that he’d want to act soon as well. I heard him breathing in low, measured reps as he thought it over.
Finally, he spoke. “I fear there is a great deal about Helen Castano that you may not know. She is a complex and precious woman. I tried to love her myself but she’d sooner love a Gila monster than me. I have no wish to keep her here any longer than necessary—but I have serious reservations about a change of plans.”
There was another pause on the line, as he weighed the thing out in his mind again, analyzing my request as well as the possibility that I might be laying a trap for him. I didn’t say a word, just let him work it out for himself.
“All right, Joe, it shall be as you wish—tonight—but please do not engage in any irregularities of any sort. The consequences of that would likely be fatal for you and for Helen.”
“You have my word, Mario. Have your men meet me at the plaza in Agua Caliente in one hour.”
“Agua Caliente? We agreed on Ensenada. I do not think I wish to do that.”
I couldn’t afford to lose him now. The deal was on, but I needed some protection. I went for his soft spot—his big, fat Castilian ego.
“Mario, Agua Caliente is a nothing little town with one small plaza, a town you must know well. It’s right in your own backyard. If you can’t control what goes on there, you’re not as big a deal as I thought. I’ll be there with one man, out in the open. If you want to gun us down, you can. What are you afraid of?”
“I am afraid of nothing,” he bellowed, singeing the line again. Then quietly, “All right, fine. You shall have your little meeting, and on your terms. Take pride in knowing you are one of very few men who’s ever had that advantage over me—and it’s only because I trust you.”
“Thank you. It’s nine thirty now. We’ll be at the fountain in the plaza at ten thirty. Will I see you there?”
“I trust you—but not that much.”
I smiled. “Okay, fair enough. Just send Helen and no more than a hundred men. I won’t risk her life, you know that.”
“I’ll send two cars, four men in each. That should be enough to prevent any rash heroism. Good luck, Joe; call me anytime you reconsider your position.”
“That’s not going to happen. Sorry I won’t see you again. You’re not a bad guy—for a criminal.”
We hung up.
I wasn’t sure if I liked him, but I respected part of him. The man had a code. He seemed a bit of an anachronism, even in as back-assward a place as Mexico.
I almost felt bad about lying to him about how many men I had, but if you’re not cheating in a game like that, you’re just not trying hard enough.
76
We rode in silence to Agua Caliente, the occasional passing car highlighting our tight, lined faces in harsh light. Lino wore his usual expression: none.
All humor had left Vito’s face as well. His was the gaze of a stalking panther quietly roaming the night plains. His eyes were narrow and focused as he stared well down the road, locked on something I couldn’t see, smoke haze churning upward from the imported cigarette between his still fingers.
The satchel didn’t say much, either, just sat mute beneath my elbow. But it sure made its presence felt, a hundred thousand bucks’ worth of presence.
I took long looks at my conscripted companions, men who had put their lives up for sale just because their boss said so. I didn’t know much about them when you got right down to it, didn’t know much about Bravo, either—but you get a feeling about these things.
When you live on the wrong side of midnight, you develop a different set of instincts, and your grasp of people and their motivations becomes much clearer. If it doesn’t, you don’t see too many more sunrises.
* * *
We made it to town without any delays, but as we approached I had to double-check the map twice to make sure we were at the right place. Cars and trucks crowded along the roadside the last couple hundred yards, people coming and going from town in big bunches. A yellow-orange corona of light pulsed above the village, and an audible buzz crackled in the air. Mariachi horns blared in the distance, joined by the report of firecrackers.
Lino gave me a stupid look, but I just thrust out two irritated fingers and signaled for him to continue.
I shook my head in utter disbelief. We had arrived for our low-key hostage swap in the middle of a goddamn religious festival.
“Joe, it’s a fiesta,” Vito declared, wide-eyed.
“No shit!” I snapped. “What are the odds of this happening?”
Actually, they were pretty good. These third-world Podunks didn’t have a whole hell of a lot going on, so everybody looked forward to a chance to blow off some steam and skip a day in the fields every month or so. Saint Pepe of the Peyote or the Blessed Virgins of the Taqueria—it didn’t really take much to get the people wanting to have a good drink in the name of God and in place of work. Who could blame them with the lives they led?
And it didn’t matter a hill of frijoles anyhow. We had a meet, which I had set up, and it was still my best chance to get Helen and put an end to this traveling circus of depravity that left behind multiple felonies everywhere it stopped. I also realized that the presence of hundreds of people was likely to keep the shenanigans in check and that we could probably get this thing done quick and right. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad night for a party after all.
Lino got us as close as he could to the plaza before the crush of people blocked the street. I checked the time. It was 10:20.
“Okay, guys, new plan,” I said. “Lino, just cool it here. If you have to move, take it out a block or so, but stay with the car. Vit, let’s go. The crowd’s gonna make this trickier, but I don’t think anyone’s gonna pull any stunts. And for God’s sake, let’s not have any shooting—there’s kids running around all over the place.”
“Hey, I got kids, too,” Vito said indignantly. “You don’t gotta tell me that, Joe.”
“Yeah? Sorry, I didn’t know. Here, or over there?”
“Over there,” he muttered before slamming his door shut. He exchanged glances with Lino, then checked his weapon in its holster and turned to face me, a slight scowl on his face.
For a second I thought he was going to draw down on me, and I recoiled slightly in anticipation. It was the first time I’d been unsure of him—and it was the wrong time for it to be the first time—but then he just tossed his cigarette on the dirt, ground it out, and continued staring at me.
I swallowed down the taste of iron forming on my tongue and said dryly, “Let’s go then.”
We turned and walked off, weaving in and out of the bouncing throng of revelers as we went.
We entered the plaza from the southwest corner. To our left, at the west end, stood the mariachi stage I’d seen earlier. Opposite that, to the east, the church. The fountain was smack in the middle with low shops ringing the square on three sides. I stopped at the edge of the crowd a long moment, then flicked a finger toward the fountain and we moved in.
The plaza was a beehive of activity. Bright strings of lights crisscrossed the open spaces, bringing a happy glow to the square and the villagers’ faces. The smell of cooked beef and roasted corn filled the air, cut periodically by the brusque bite of native tobacco and the tinge of gunpowder from the bandoliers of small explosives the kids were letting off. Hundreds of people frolicked in the formerly deserted space, many of them dancing to the strains of the horns and guitars of the mariachis onstage.
In the midst of the gathering, I spied Father Lázaro, leading a procession. Behind him, several men were carrying a religious icon upon a wooden platform, scattered peso notes pinned irregularly to the lonesome Virgin. I turned my head away so the father wouldn’t see me.
Closer in, a man held a pink pig piñata aloft on a wooden pole, circling it around and around his head, the pig dancing and bobbing above the crowd. Vito and I threaded our way through it all to the center, separated, and walked around either side of the fountain, meeting again on the far side, our eyes searching for any sign of our men or Bravo’s.
As I surveyed the area, I couldn’t believe it was the same place I had walked through just a few hours earlier. Even the fountain was now filled to the top, frothy water spraying up from the middle in a small geyser then falling down upon itself in globs and droplets, splashing off the hands of the children who watched it spatter into the air, their faces bursting with glee.
Watching all those kids, I had a change of heart. I didn’t like the scene any longer, not one bit. This was no place for the kind of danger we were courting. I consoled myself with Mario’s promise to keep it aboveboard and my assessment of his misplaced sense of chivalry.
I stood with my back to the fountain, facing the church, looking for any signs of anything awry. Vito stood a few feet off doing the same, his head panning back and forth a few degrees at a time. We didn’t look anything like most of the revelers, but no one paid us much mind. Here and there, I spied a few gringos in the crowd, mostly groups of the young men who came south for whoring and adventure on the cheap. I hoped they’d get only one tonight.
The church doors were propped open, allowing worshippers to come and go, but the balconies above were vacant, their wooden shutters closed tight. No light shone behind them. The bell tower above was dark also. Considering my relationship with the church, that was about as good a deal as I could expect, but it still didn’t feel right.
The mariachi band launched into a two-fisted version of “El Rey,” an unofficial national anthem. The delighted crowd began roaring with enthusiasm, pushing toward the raised band platform with gusto. The lead singer picked up on their zeal and stepped forward to the edge of the stage, basking in the adoration underneath an enormous sombrero. His black-and-gold uniform shimmered under the overhead lights as he flung his arms apart and warbled into the well-known tale of a wandering man.
I stole another glance at my watch. Ten twenty-six. My stomach was churning. I desperately wanted to have Helen, but the sheer number of people around and the multiplying possibility for mayhem unsettled me. And I had no idea if my wingmen were in position, either. Subconsciously, I turned my head side to side, muttering, “No, no, no, I don’t like this.”
I compulsively checked my watch again, but it was still 10:26. I told myself we could just as easily conduct this exchange in the morning. Bravo would understand, he could even call the meeting place if he wanted to—that would square the deal.
My gut made the call. It was time to punch out.
“Vito,” I said, almost shouting.
Ever alert, he turned his head, answered, “Sì?”
Before I could speak again, a penetrating light shot through the crowd fifty feet away. I turned in its direction, watched as a pair of headlights bored into the throng from the southeast corner, the moving beams cutting the villagers who passed before them into splintered shadows.
Shielding their eyes, the locals darted away from the front of the slow-moving car, leaving a clear space between it and the center of the plaza. The lights came to rest on the only thing between the car and the fountain: me.
Reflexively, I tightened my grip on the satchel, squinting to check the glare as I looked beyond the glowing spheres on the front of the vehicle.
The car was a big, dark limousine—the Bravo Special. It came to a stop, and all four doors swung open. Two men stepped out from either side and stood close by. Behind them, a second set of headlights from an identical car filtered through the wall of people ten feet farther back.
That ended any chance at bailing out—we were taking it all the way now.
77
In the last few seconds I had I eye-checked Vito, still several feet to my left at the crowd’s edge, moving him back with a flick of my fingers. He slid off smoothly several feet farther from the fragmented rays of the car lights, fading into the human camouflage.
Once the crowd determined that the limo had stopped, the people began to venture back into the space it had created, first by ones then by tens, like the sea closing in behind a boat wake.
Through the cut glare, I watched four men approach with methodical menace then halt about twenty feet away. None of the men had been at the Cortés in the afternoon, and they were dressed more like workers than mobsters, which was odd. I stared across the open space at the men, scanning their features one at a time.
Their faces were somber and tight, a vague look of angst haunting their dark eyes, l
eaving me no reason to believe they had come to kiss the feet of some weeping icon. They were Bravo’s pawns and they knew it. A guy who handled this job well might move up. One who didn’t would certainly move all the way down. Above all, their purpose was to intercept any bullets headed toward more valuable men.
The nominal leader, a thick fortyish man with bowlegs, bad teeth, and a mustache big enough to hide Diego Rivera, spoke first.
“El dinero. Tiene el dinero, cabrón?”
I said nothing, raised the bag in my right hand slightly, and gave him my best fuck-do-you-think? look. Then I asked, “The woman, do you have the woman? Tiene la mujer?” And, in a nod to machismo, I one-upped his insult, closing with, “cabroncito.”
He flashed a fractured smile at my brass, lifted his arm over his head, and signaled with his fingers. Several bunches of revelers walked through the space between us then on their way to the stage. After they passed, I saw three men working their way forward behind the front four. Helen was behind them with another man I couldn’t see, her face twisted in nervous anticipation, her eyes on mine as she approached.
I marked Vito again in my peripheral vision to give them something to think about, then held the bag up, showed off the hundred thousand iron men bunking inside, and snapped it shut again. Then I motioned for them to send Helen over with one man.
Several villagers caught our gestures as they passed but wisely pressed on. Up on the stage, the mariachis were bringing “El Rey” on home for the crowd, but the words didn’t register as I focused on the seven men with guns in front of me.
Several yards away, the pink pig on a stick caromed through the air, bouncing teasingly above the grasping hands of rowdy teens. The piñata man was meandering toward us in wide, circuitous steps. Everywhere the night and the music swayed, the crush of the intoxicated crowd closing in around us.
A brown hand holding a black pistol parted the row of pawns. They stepped aside and Pocket Dracula strode through, one hand on a gun that was too big for him and the other wrapped tightly around Helen’s upper arm. He could hardly contain himself as they approached, those yellow teeth glistening in the light.
One for Our Baby Page 23
