The Cartel: A Novel

by Don Winslow

He lifts Chuy up.

  “It’s time,” Nazario says.

  —

  Chuy leads five La Familia warriors into the Sol y Sombre disco where a lot of the Zetas party.

  The music throbs, the lights strobe.

  Chuy fires a burst from his AR into the ceiling.

  As the revelers dive to the floor, two of Chuy’s men open a black plastic bag and dump out its contents.

  Five human heads roll across the black-and-white-tiled floor.

  Chuy reads from a cardboard sheet, “The Family doesn’t kill for money! It doesn’t kill women, it doesn’t kill innocent people! Only those who deserve to die, die! This was divine justice!”

  He tosses the sheet down and walks out.

  The revolution—the rebellion of La Familia Michoacana to throw the Zetas out of their homeland—starts that night. Nazario writes press releases and takes out advertisements in the major newspapers to the effect that La Familia is not a public menace but just the opposite, a patriotic organization doing what the government cannot or will not do—“cleanse” Michoacán of kidnappers, extortionists, rapists, meth dealers, and foreign oppressors such as the Zetas.

  Chuy doesn’t care about any of that.

  All he knows now is killing, and it’s all he wants to know.

  —

  Eddie sees the story about the Sol y Sombre nightclub on the news.

  “Nice,” he says to the flunkie playing Madden with him. “Beheadings? Like…beheadings? I thought that was Muslim shit. Al Qaeda.”

  A few days later Eddie hears that the beheadings might have been carried out by the same guy who attacked his nightclub.

  “Jesus the Kid.”

  The boy changed jerseys, I guess, Eddie thinks.

  A midseason trade.

  And some of the narcos are saying that the kid is really a kid, eleven, twelve years old.

  Junior varsity.

  Suddenly, Eddie feels old.

  Then he gets the word—

  —okay, the order—

  —to go make nice.

  —The word comes down from AB, El Señor, through Diego.

  Eddie gets it—the Zetas have fought them to a bloody stalemate in Tamaulipas—tit-for-tat trench warfare that promises nothing but more of the same. So if these La Familia whackadoodles can draw some troops away from Tamaulipas, okay, good.

  It doesn’t stop Eddie from arguing. “They’re religious nuts. You know this Nazario’s aporto? ‘El Más Loco’—the Craziest.”

  “As long as he’s killing Zetas,” Diego says.

  “He’s doing that,” Eddie says. “He’s also our biggest competitor in the North American meth market.”

  “Plenty of helio-heads to go around,” Diego answers.

  Well, that’s a big chunk of truth, Eddie thinks. The Mexicans have finally found a drug that white trash likes and can afford. And one thing you ain’t never gonna run out of is white trash.

  That stuff makes itself.

  They get made in the backseats of junk cars, and then they live in them.

  So a week later Eddie Ruiz looks across a table at Chuy up in Morelia, Michoacán.

  And he really is a kid.

  An actual kid.

  “I should be really pissed at you,” Eddie says. “That stunt in Acapulco—very bad shit.”

  Feels like he should put him in “time out.”

  Chuy doesn’t respond. Eddie looks into his eyes and sees nothing there—it’s like staring at a snake. This kid, he has to remember, this freaking junior varsity water boy, cut the heads off five men and rolled them across a disco floor like he was duckpin bowling.

  Guilty feet ain’t got no rhythm, Eddie thinks.

  But Diego said to work with these born-again Bible-thumpers, so—

  “Hey, ‘Texas forever,’ right?” Eddie says. “We pochos have to stick together. Now let’s you and me go bag ourselves some Zeta assholes.”

  “I kill for the Lord.”

  “Okay, then,” Eddie says.

  In the next ninety days, over four hundred narcos will be killed in Uruapan, Apatzingán, Morelia, and Lázaro Cárdenas.

  The new tag team of Crazy Eddie and Jesus the Kid account for more than a few of them.

  5

  Narco Polo

  Must be the money.

  —Nelly

  “Ride wit Me”

  Mexico City

  2006

  Keller sips his white wine and looks over the glass at the exquisite woman smiling at him across the lobby of the movie theater.

  Yvette Tapia is stunning in a short silver dress, her black hair cut in a severe pageboy, her lipstick a dark, daring red. If she meant to invoke the age of the flapper, a Zelda Fitzgerald combination of sophistication and sexiness in a Mexican milieu, she’s succeeded. As one of the film’s financial backers, she moves fluidly through the crowd, smiling and chatting and charming.

  Desperate men, Keller reflects, make desperate moves.

  And he’s desperate.

  His hunt for Adán Barrera is at a standstill, frozen on an investigational tundra of no leads, mired in bureaucratic entropy. His colleagues on the Barrera Coordinating Committee are bogged down elsewhere, simply too busy trying to cope with simultaneous wars in Baja, Tamaulipas, and now Michoacán.

  Keller has to admit that the violence is unprecedented. Even at the height (the depth?) of Barrera’s war against Güero Méndez, back in the ’90s, the fighting was sporadic—brief sudden peaks of violence—not a daily event. And not spread across three broad areas of the country, with multiple and interconnected antagonists.

  The Alliance fighting Teo Solorzano in Baja.

  The Alliance fighting the CDG/Zetas in Tamaulipas.

  La Familia (with, apparently, Alliance help) fighting the Zetas in Michoacán.

  The war back in the ’90s encompassed a few dozen fighters at a time. Now the cartels are mustering literally hundreds of men, maybe thousands—most of them military veterans, former or current police officers, in any case, trained fighters.

  AFI and SEIDO are trying to take them all on.

  Unless you believe Ochoa, Keller thinks, in which case the lineup looks a little different:

  The Alliance and the federal government fighting Teo Solorzano in Baja.

  The Alliance and the federal government fighting the Zetas in Tamaulipas.

  La Familia (with, apparently, Alliance help) and the federal government fighting the Zetas in Michoacán.

  Keller doesn’t want to believe it. Was there official collusion in Barrera’s escape from Puente Grande? Doubtless. Complicity in his close escapes? Likely. Entrenched corruption that keeps him protected wherever the hell it is he’s “hiding”? Inarguable.

  But a coordinated federal effort to assist Barrera in taking over the entire Mexican drug trade? That’s a grassy knoll that Keller can’t climb.

  He and Ochoa do agree on one thing.

  Start with the Tapias.

  I have nowhere else to start, Keller thinks as he watches Yvette come toward him in the lobby.

  It’s in direct violation of his working agreement with both DEA and the Mexicans. You are not here to cultivate your own sources, take independent action, or do surveillance or any other intelligence gathering.

  Yeah, well, Keller thinks, I’m not here to sit on my ass and do nothing while you guys work on everything but Barrera, either. Nothing changes if nothing changes, so it’s time to start a little change.

  He’d used an embassy connection to get into the film, and it came with an invitation to the post-premiere reception where everyone stands around thinking of nice things to say. Keller sought Yvette out, complimented her on the movie, and they got to talking.

  “Yvette Tapia,” she said. “My husband, Martín, and I helped to finance the film.”

  “Art Keller.”

  If she recognized the name, she didn’t show it. “And what do you do in Mexico City, Art?”

  “I’m with the DEA.”


  Give her credit, she didn’t flinch. Her in-laws are some of the biggest drug traffickers in the world and she didn’t as much as blink. Instead, she smiled charmingly and said, “Well, that must keep you very busy.”

  They made small talk for a little bit, and then she moved on to work the crowd. Now she makes her way back to him and says, “Art, we’re having a post-party party at the house. Very casual. Won’t you come?”

  “I’m by myself,” Keller answers. “I don’t want to be a fifth wheel.”

  “You’d be a twenty-fifth wheel,” she says. Her husband comes up and stands at her shoulder, and she turns to him and says, “Martín, we have a poor lonely diplomat here who’s resisting my invitation. Make him come.”

  Martín Tapia looks like anything but a narco. He wears a carefully tailored dark blue suit with a white shirt and tie, and the word that comes to Keller’s mind is “polished.”

  Martín extends his hand. “My wife has invited all the usual suspects, so a little fresh blood would be very welcome.”

  “Always happy to be a transfusion,” Keller says. “Where…”

  “Cuernavaca,” Martín says.

  Hello, “Cuernavaca,” Keller thinks, remembering the series of phone calls that led to the ambush at Atizapán. “I don’t have my car with me.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange a ride with someone,” Martín says.

  So Keller hops in a car with a film agent, and rides out to the modern house in a gated community in the hills of Cuernavaca.

  The small crowd can only be described as “glittering.” Literally, in the case of the actresses in sequined dresses—one of whom he thinks he recognizes from American films—metaphorically in the case of the writers, producers, and financiers. He’s been standing around for about ten minutes when Yvette comes over to him.

  “Let me see,” she says, scanning the room. “Who here is right for you? Not Sofía, she’s a wonderful actress but quite insane…”

  “Maybe not an actress.”

  “A writer, then,” Yvette says. “There’s Victoria—stunning, isn’t she? She’s some sort of financial journalist, but I think she’s married, and, anyway, she lives in Juárez…”

  “You really don’t have to play matchmaker for me.”

  “But I enjoy it so much,” Yvette says, “and you wouldn’t deprive a staid married lady of her small pleasures, would you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Come on, then,” she says, taking him by the arm, “let me introduce you to Frieda. She writes film criticism and we’re all terrified of her, but…”

  Yvette skillfully dumps him off on Frieda, and Keller chats with the film critic as he watches Yvette move from guest to guest, charming everyone.

  But she’s here to do just that, Keller thinks.

  So is her husband.

  Martín Tapia is a successful young entrepreneur on the rise, and making high-level connections is his business. Or his brother’s, Keller thinks. The Tapias could be Diego’s link to Mexico’s upper crust. And if they’re Diego’s, they could very well be Adán’s.

  It’s not much, but it’s the only thread Keller has. It’s pretty ballsy, though, he has to admit, injecting himself into the Tapia household. I wonder what Adán would think, if he knew I was here.

  Maybe he already does.

  Keller makes polite conversation with the film critic for a moment and then wanders off and grabs another glass of wine.

  “You look as lost as I feel.”

  The woman beside him is stunning—a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, dazzling brown eyes, auburn hair that falls to her shoulders, and a figure that Keller can’t help but notice under her classic little black dress.

  “I don’t know how you feel, but, yes, I do feel lost,” Keller says. He offers his hand. “I’m Art Keller.”

  “Marisol Cisneros,” she says, shaking his hand. “North American?”

  “With the embassy.”

  “Their Spanish instruction is better than it used to be,” Marisol says. “Rosetta Stone—Latin American version?”

  “My mother was Mexican,” Keller says. “I spoke Spanish before I spoke English.”

  “Are you a friend of the Tapias?”

  “I just met them at the film opening,” Keller says.

  “I don’t know them at all. I came with a friend.”

  Keller’s surprised that he feels a slight pang of disappointment until he hears her say, “I think you met her. Frieda?”

  “The terrifying film critic.”

  “All critics are terrifying,” Marisol says. “That’s why I became a mortician.”

  “You don’t look like—”

  “I’m a doctor,” she says. “One step removed from a mortician.”

  Keller sees her blush.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, laughing at herself. “That was a stupid joke. I think I’m nervous. This is sort of my coming-out party.”

  “Coming out from…”

  “My divorce,” Marisol says. “It’s been six months and I’ve done that bury-yourself-in-your-work thing. Frieda dragged me to this. I’m not very comfortable with the beautiful people.”

  But you’re beautiful, Keller thinks. “Me neither.”

  “I can tell.” She blushes. “There I go again, being socially awkward. What I meant was…I don’t know…you don’t seem…”

  “The beautiful people type?”

  “I meant it as a compliment, believe it or not.”

  “I’ll take it as one.” They stand there—awkwardly—and then Keller thinks of, “Do you live in Cuernavaca?”

  “No, the city. Condesa. You know it?”

  “I live there.”

  “I moved from Polanco after the divorce,” she says. “I like it there. Bookstores. Cafés. You don’t feel so…pathetic…going into those places by yourself.”

  Keller can’t imagine that she’s by herself that much. If she is, it’s by choice. He says, “I was reading a book the other night while eating—alone—in a Chinese restaurant, and the book talked about a man so lonely that he eats alone in Chinese restaurants.”

  “So sad!”

  “But you’re laughing.”

  “Well, it’s funny, too.”

  “I got up and left,” Keller says. “Totally demoralized.”

  “This past Valentine’s Day?” Marisol says. “I sent out for a pizza. Sat in my condo and watched Sabrina and cried.”

  “That’s pretty bad.”

  “Not as bad as your Chinese restaurant.”

  They look at each other for a second and then Keller says, “I think this is where I ask you for your phone number. So I can…call…”

  “Right.” Marisol reaches into her purse.

  “I’ll remember it,” Keller says.

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  Marisol tells him her number and he repeats it back. Then she says that she’d better collect Frieda and head back to the city—she has clinic hours in the morning. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  As she starts to walk away, Keller asks, “Anne Hathaway or Audrey Hepburn?”

  “Oh, Audrey Hepburn. Of course.”

  Of course, Keller thinks.

  Of course.

  —

  “What do you think of the North American?” Martín Tapia asks as he steps out of the shower later that night.

  Yvette sits in front of the mirror, carefully taking off her makeup and checking for wrinkles around the eyes that are as inevitable as they are undesirable. It might be time, she thinks, to check in with her cosmetic surgeon about Botox or a procedure.

  “Keller?” she answers. “He’s nice enough.”

  “Don’t get fond. Adán wants him dead.”

  “That’s a shame,” Yvette says. “He could be useful.”

  “How?”

  “Let me ask you something,” Yvette says as she gets into bed. “Do you trust Adán?”

  —

&n
bsp; Keller starts with Martín Tapia the next morning.

  To all appearances, the middle Tapia brother is a successful young entrepreneur who does what successful young entrepreneurs do.

  Most days Martín leaves the house midmorning and drives downtown. He has meetings, he has lunches, he has more meetings. He plays golf at the Lomas Country Club. He goes to banks and corporate offices. Some evenings, usually with his lovely wife on his arm, he’s seen in trendy restaurants, at the theater, at the ballet or the opera. On other evenings they just stay home and enjoy a quiet dinner—the pool, the Jacuzzi, the tennis court—and retire early.

  On Sundays, he and Yvette go to brunch at the Hotel Aristo with the other smart couples. Their list of friendships, acquaintances, and associates is a Who’s Who of the capital. But after a month of surveillance, Keller never sees Martín meet with a policeman or a politician.

  Maybe I’m wrong, he thinks. Maybe Martín is clean, not involved in his brothers’ business. Or maybe he’s taken some of the money and used it to launch himself in legitimate business.

  Maybe.

  Keller switches his attention to Yvette.

  And again, to all appearances, she does what the wife of a successful young entrepreneur would do. She gets up and does yoga or swims laps, she takes tennis lessons from a private coach. She goes out to lunch with other wives, serves on charitable committees.

  She plays golf.

  Yvette Tapia is a serious golfer, going two or three times a week to the La Vista Country Club.

  Keller can’t follow her into the club without being stopped at the gate, but he parks across the road. Switching rental cars every day or so, he gets an idea of her schedule—every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday she drives her white Mercedes to the club, plays nine holes, and usually drives home, unless she goes somewhere to have a drink with friends.

  Maybe I’m wrong, Keller thinks again.

  The next afternoon, Keller doesn’t track Yvette from the house but waits on the road outside the club for her to finish. This time she doesn’t drive home or to a restaurant, but to a residential street that flanks the golf club.

  Keller watches the white Mercedes pull into a driveway.

  He notes the address—123 Vista Linda.

  Probably a friend, Keller thinks.

  He drives past and watches through the rearview mirror as Yvette gets out of the Mercedes, takes a small case from the passenger seat, and walks up to the front door. Then he pulls over on the other side of the street as she lets herself in with a key.