by Layton Green
She didn’t berate herself for her reaction to the dream. Being brave did not mean being fearless, she knew.
It meant being able to overcome the fear.
After breakfast she took refuge in her work. She sat in front of her laptop and put her index fingers to her temples. In the age of Internet and drones, of CCTV cameras and NSA wiretaps, in an almost limitless informational society, why couldn’t they find the General?
Fine, he was ex-CIA and knew their tricks. It had to go deeper than that. He was old school, an avoider of technology, able to live and thrive off the grid. An Osama bin Laden, living in a cave and avoiding the world as the might of the United States crashed against his mountain.
Where was the General’s cave? How did he run his empire?
He kept his money off the books, easy to do with drugs. He probably had billions hidden in a jungle hut in the Amazon. But it was as if he ran a two-man organization, himself and Guiñol, giving orders to a dozen cartels. Where were his lieutenants, his foot soldiers? How did he do it?
Could the cult angle have merit? It wasn’t the subject matter that gave Lana pause—the CIA knew better than most just how susceptible human beings were to the power of coercion—it was the scope. Palo Mayombe was one cult, and the General had his hand in multiple organizations. Could Palo be that widespread?
If Grey and Fred’s investigation brought her even one step closer, then it was worth it. To advance to the highest ranks of the CIA, it took something extraordinary, and she didn’t have the luxury of nepotism or a Cold War. Because of her Spanish, her career had been focused on Latin America, outside the front lines of the war on terror, limited in opportunity for an ambitious young agent.
She stopped alongside a canal, eying a red-and-black alien insect hive clinging to a tree. Miami had bugs that hadn’t even been catalogued.
Forcing the memory of the dream to return, she confronted it headlong, laughing in its face until it disintegrated in the sunlight, motes of greasy subconscious scattering in the breeze.
Then she wheeled and went to see Colonel Ganso.
She found him in his garden, legs crossed, sipping coffee and stacking a handful of dominoes. He waved her over, beaming like a golf pro after an eagle putt.
What does he do all day? she wondered, then wished she hadn’t. An image of the Colonel in his study late at night came to her, cognac in hand, surrounded by the chittering ghosts of his victims.
“Any progress?” she asked, walking to the edge of the sitting area and folding her arms.
“Sit, sit.”
“I’ll stand today.”
He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “As you wish. Unfortunately, Lana, despite the sifting of many . . . memories . . . I can remember nothing else of value on this topic.”
Lana shifted from left to right. The dominoes rose and fell from Colonel Ganso’s fingers, a rhythmic series of clicks. “I will not bother asking why you seek him, since it is not my place. But some advice, if I may?”
Lana eyed him warily. In the foliage draping the wall behind the Colonel, a golden orb weaver squatted in its web like some fat prince of death. The imagery was not lost on her.
“Were I seeking someone hidden,” he said, “I would think like someone trained to elicit such information. I would think like a torturer.”
“You mean think like yourself?”
The Colonel spread his hands in admission, his groomed hair and patrician face a model of colonial charm. “A good torturer does not simply elicit pain—he seeks points of pressure. These are two very distinct things, and they are different for everyone. Yes, physical pain will eventually break most people, but you cannot trust information given by a broken man. A man who fears something, however—such information is far more reliable. A selfish man fears for himself, and is easy to read. A better man fears for others. If possible, when dealing with a better man, one will find a loved one and bring them close. The very thought of torture befalling a family member was often enough to loosen a tongue—or to cause someone in hiding to emerge.”
“Lovely advice,” she said.
“Were we not neighbors once, Lana? I wish only to help. We both have done what is expedient to our aims, so let us not be squeamish.”
“You have to find someone before you can torture them.”
He shifted forward in his seat. She tensed, resisting the urge to snap a front kick to his face.
“What I am trying to impart is that everyone has their pressure point, someone or something they love. Everyone. Why focus on going to him? Find his pressure point, that which he loves or fears, and perhaps he will come to you.”
Lana couldn’t stand to be in this reptile’s presence for another second. She gave him a thin smile, dismissed him, and walked away.
She was thoughtful, however, as she drove by the stately palms of Merrick Park on her way home. While she would never let Colonel Ganso know it, and had no idea what to do about it, she had to admit his twisted little speech was not devoid of merit.
Grey barred the door and slept in a semiconscious state, but the night passed without incident. After breakfast, he and Fred drove down Highway 307, the principal artery—the only artery—along the coast south of Cancun.
This was the Mayan Riviera, though the moniker made Grey chuckle. The road was newly paved, but it was still Mexico: a series of spooky police checkpoints along the way, workers eating lunch and urinating along the side of the road, colorfully dressed Mayan women walking to work with baskets on their heads, a dog with a tumor the size of a baseball waiting to die beside a bus stop, palatial resorts on the Caribbean side and a vast stunted jungle stretching to the horizon on the other.
Occasionally a village would interrupt the jungle, dusty little hovels built to service the mega-resorts, withering in the sun as if the all-inclusives had sucked the life and raw materials out of the land, leaving husks of towns and people.
Two hours later, they turned off the highway into Akumal, a tasteful enclave of condos fronting a beautiful rocky bay. The village where Carson Young, ex-DEA agent and Fred’s contact, owned a condo.
“What’s the story on your guy?” Grey asked, as Fred navigated the potholed road through a handful of shops and restaurants in the village center. Thick dark clouds filled the sky.
“One of those agents who retired but could never leave. No family back home, didn’t want a normal life in the States, and hell, they don’t pay us enough to retire there anyway. We worked on a few cases together in South Texas. Stand-up guy, very old school. He’d as soon jump off a bridge as break his word.”
“Isn’t he worried about retiring down here?”
“He was never undercover in Mexico. You’re right, still maybe not the smartest play, but he’s been down here a while, probably picked up his pad for a song.”
Fred parked in front of a three-story stucco building, painted soft yellow. They climbed to the top floor and rang the bell. A broad-shouldered older man with a moustache opened the door. Carson embraced Fred with a hearty grin and led them to a balcony overlooking the bay.
Their host disappeared inside to retrieve a cooler full of Dos Equis and limes. Down below, Grey saw a honey-colored beach and an aquamarine bay so clear he could see the bottom. Palapa huts dotted the sand.
They relaxed in lounge chairs as Fred brought Carson up to speed on the situation, leaving out the CIA’s involvement, telling him they were pursuing a lead on a big shot in the Southern Cone. When Fred mentioned the General, Carson didn’t react.
“Ever hear anything about that down here?” Fred asked. “Rumors, myths, urban legends?”
Carson wiped beer off his moustache. “Nope, but I wouldn’t be the guy. I still do a little go-between work here and there for headquarters, got to keep gas in my boat, but other than that I stay off the radar. Alianza has the Yucatan on lockdown, though every month or so some upstart crew makes a play in Cancun, and the Alianza leaves a pile of headless bodies in a disco. The tourist
s never hear about it, but it’s here.”
Fred told him about the Palo Mayombe angle, and Carson started nodding along with the narrative. “That’s down here, for sure,” he said. “I don’t know the extent, and you’ll never see it out in the open, but I hear the Alianza’s pretty steeped in the stuff.” His thumb caressed the neck of his beer bottle. “Now that’s something I don’t poke my nose into.”
“What about someone named Tata Menga?” Grey asked. “A big-time cult boss living somewhere in the jungle? Ever hear of anyone like that?”
Carson’s hand tightened around his beer. He took a long sip and wiped his moustache. “I don’t know any names, but there are plenty of rumors. They say there’s shit in the jungle you don’t even want to think about, not in your worst nightmares.” He turned to Fred. “You heard about Adolfo Constanzo’s cult up in Matamoros years back, right? If you haven’t, I suggest you look it up. And that was Northern Mexico, close to the border. This is the Yucatan. Nothing but scrub and vines and ruins between here and Merida.”
“You mentioned you might know someone to talk to?” Fred said. “Someone local?”
Carson plucked at his moustache. “Yeah, I know a guy. He spooks easily, but I can probably find him tonight, if you can stick around.”
“You sure it’s okay?” Fred said.
“Don’t insult me, Freddie.” He reached for another beer. “So how’re the kids?”
Fred mumbled a reply, avoided eye contact, and went to use the restroom.
Grey watched him as he walked away.
The afternoon squall moved across the bay like an angered god. When the weather settled, Grey and Fred walked down the beach for dinner, past whitewashed villas and little wooden signs marking turtle nests. They dined next to a pair of Swedes bemoaning the new construction spoiling the Mayan Riviera.
What they really mean, Grey thought, is that they’d like the level of spoliation to remain exactly where it is, so they can continue to enjoy their low cost of living while the impoverished locals wait on them hand and foot.
Carson returned after dinner with no success at reaching his contact, rolling his eyes at the impossibility of doing business in Mexico. He said he would try again the next evening, but Grey was nervous. Every hour they spent in Mexico was on borrowed time.
Just as Grey settled into bed, he spotted a flashlight bobbing on the beach, outside his window. He rushed to the balcony in a crouch.
Carson, who was sitting in the dark, stopped him with a hand on the arm and pointed out an elderly man shuffling along the beach, a handful of sticks in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
“He walks the beach every night during turtle season,” Carson said. “Marks where they lay their eggs.”
Grey watched the old man disappear down the beach, then returned to his room. After his adrenaline calmed, Grey had a peaceful sleep, drifting off to the sound of waves thumping against the shore. He dreamed of long walks on the misty peaks of the Vumba, hand in hand with Nya, the whole of Zimbabwe cradled below.
Grey spent the next day in the condo, restless, risking a run along the beach to settle his nerves. An even more serious afternoon storm swept through, bending palms and frothing the water, but then the rain stopped and the evening sunset mottled through the clouds, turning the bay into a smudged silver dollar.
Just before dinner, Carson returned from an outing and ushered them into his battered Land Cruiser. “Got good news for you, gentlemen. Hop in. I’ll tell you over dinner.”
Grey was surprised when he took them across the highway to Akumal Pueblo. He was even more surprised at the chill feel of the place. Some of the concrete houses lining the single paved road had fresh coats of paint, plants and herbs adorned the windowsills, people laughed and smiled as they took their evening walks. There was even a well-maintained soccer field for the kids.
Carson parked alongside a chicken rotisserie joint that consisted of a rusted black smoker, five plastic tables, and a waddling Mayan woman as tall as Grey’s chest who greeted them like they were her nephews. The smell of roasting chicken almost made Grey swoon.
Carson noticed his approval, slapped him on the back, and ordered a round of beers. Fred looked uncomfortable and kept eying the pueblo.
“Never could take you anywhere,” Carson said. “Don’t worry, this place is narco free.”
“No place is narco free,” Fred said.
Carson wagged a finger. “Don’t let their size fool you—Yucatan Mayans are a tough breed. Held out longer than anyone against Mexican rule, you know.” The proprietress brought out a plate of chicharrones, crispy nuggets of pig fat, and Carson crunched into one. “So my guy,” he rumbled between bites, “wants to meet tonight after dinner, at a nightclub he likes to frequent. Bring five hundred in cash.”
“Lana better reimburse me,” Fred muttered.
“Who’s the guy?” Grey asked, munching on a chicharon. His eyes swept the village, but he hadn’t gotten a danger vibe, even before Carson’s reassurance.
“His name’s Checo, an informant out of Playa del Carmen. Been here all his life, has his ear to the ground. He’s a rat-faced mestizo with spiderweb prison tats on the backs of his hands. You’ll find him by the pool table.”
Mexican folk music blared from down the street, and the tables filled with families. The roasted chicken tasted even better than it looked, soaked in its own juices, and the rice and black beans were some of the best Grey had ever had. Washed down with cold beer, Grey thought it the perfect meal.
“What about that other thing we discussed?” Fred asked, forming a gun with his thumb and forefinger on the table.
Carson looked embarrassed. “My guy’s bringing them by tomorrow. Sorry, nothing gets done around here on time.”
Fred mashed his lips together, and Grey could tell he was trying to control his temper. “How much?” Fred asked.
“Two bills.”
“Apiece?”
“Total.”
“Jesus,” Fred said.
“Any chance this guy Checo turns on us?” Grey said quietly. “We did a few things in Miami the Alianza won’t have approved of.”
Carson’s moustache bristled as he turned to Grey. “I’d never compromise you. This guy hates the Alianza. He had two brothers who were selling blow to tourists because their mother needed surgery, and the Alianza got wind of it. A sicario paid them a visit, tortured and killed the brothers and one of Checo’s nephews, then left all three hanging from a bridge on the highway. Checo was in jail at the time, or he’d be dead, too.” He pushed his plate away, wiped his hands, and stood. “Shall we?”
Carson took them back to their car and retired to his condo. After stopping at an ATM by the grocery store, Grey and Fred headed to the nightclub where they were supposed to meet Checo. It was only a few miles down the road, just off the highway, a rotting yellow shack at the edge of the scrub line.
A dozen or so cars were parked haphazardly in the grass. Night had settled over the jungle like a billowy black shroud coming to rest on a corpse. There were no windows in the shack, no ambient light, no other buildings in sight. A sign on top of the bar read CERVEZAS FRÍAS. Cold beer.
Grey exchanged a grimace with Fred as the rental car idled just off the road. Carson had an interesting definition of a nightclub.
“Carson wouldn’t send us into the lion’s den,” Fred said.
“Too bad he didn’t come through with the guns on time.”
“Yeah, too bad. Come back tomorrow night?”
Grey opened the passenger door. “The longer we wait, the more time we give the cartel to find us. And then the guns won’t matter.”
As soon as Grey cracked the door, a jumble of male voices poured out of the bar, along with the maudlin guitar chords of Mexican folk music. By the time he and Fred stepped through the entrance, the voices had quieted, and each of the twenty or so men inside had stopped to stare at the two gringos.
The ceiling was so low Grey could reach up and
touch it. There was a rickety wooden bar along the opposite wall, two pool tables to Grey’s left, and a few plastic tables with chairs to his right. Most of the men stood around the pool tables or leaned against the bar.
Too many hard eyes, Grey thought, and not enough exits. There were no openly displayed firearms, but he noticed a pair of machetes in the corner, and a knife scabbard hanging from a belt. None of the men stood like trained fighters, but nearly all of them had the look of someone who would mix it up on the street. Real fighters or not, twenty to two were losing odds.
He saw Fred catch the eye of a skinny man at one of the pool tables, standing beneath a neon Tecate sign. The man nudged his head towards the right side of the room. Fred headed to the bar as Grey took a seat at one of the tables. The talking among the patrons resumed, but one man was still glancing at him and Fred out of the corner of his eye, a bulky man about Grey’s height, with soil-stained hands and sleepy eyes. He was talking to a short but even thicker guy at the end of the bar, the one with the knife.
The tension in the room eased from a boil to a simmer. Fred returned with two bottles of beer.
“We’ve got some eyes,” Grey said quietly.
“Keep scoping, but this place looks too low rent for narcos,” Fred said. “Probably locals who won’t buy in.”
The skinny man joined them a few minutes later, when his game was finished. His face did resemble a rodent’s, long and narrow and sly. Spiderweb tattoos dissected his hands, and his eyes were wary.
“Hola. Soy Checo. Carson les mandó?” I’m Checo. Carson sent you?
“Claro,” Fred said. That’s right.
As Fred and Checo made small talk, Grey remained silent, playing the part of the unassuming gringo. He got a strong whiff of stale lard again, mixing with the cigarette smoke drifting above the pool tables. A ceiling fan circulated the nauseating odors throughout the room.
Checo had an easy, confident air, but when Fred got around to asking about Palo Mayombe, his eyes withdrew.
