The Cartel: A Novel

by Don Winslow

  So a narco killing in Juárez is handled at various times, often overlapping, by a combination of city police, state prosecutors and police, federal prosecutors and police, and a grab bag of intelligence agencies from the city, state, and national governments.

  It’s no wonder, Pablo thinks as he looks for a parking spot in Galeana, that so few crimes are ever solved.

  Mexico is a very good place to be a criminal.

  There’s another factor at play in Juárez, and everyone knows it.

  Most Juarenses are scared shitless of the city cops.

  And for good reason. Not only can they be arbitrary and unpredictably violent, but the plain truth is that a lot of them work for two bosses—the chief of police and La Línea.

  La Línea—“the Line”—was, until recently anyway, the chief enforcement arm of the Juárez cartel. Made up exclusively of current or retired city or state police, La Línea keeps the drug trade, well, in line. Someone tries to run a load through without paying the piso? La Línea collects. Someone loses a shipment and claims the customs agents seized it? La Línea learns the truth and deals out justice. Someone is a chronic problem or an unlicensed competitor? La Línea “lifts” him and makes him disappear.

  And who are you going to go to for help?

  The cops?

  Pablo wouldn’t say that all, or even the majority, of the fifteen hundred Juárez police are La Línea, but he’s certain that a critical mass are, that those who are intimidate those who aren’t, and those who aren’t “go along to get along” if they want to keep their jobs or even survive.

  Say that even two of the district commanders—there are six in Juárez—are La Línea. They control postings, they can shift La Línea cops to where they’re needed at the moment, transfer out or fire clean cops. Say a state homicide investigator is La Línea. How hard is he really going to investigate the murder of some narco who fell afoul of the Juárez cartel, a murder that La Línea probably committed? Is he really going to pass critical evidence along to the federales, or is he going to lose it somewhere in the process?

  It’s an open secret in Juárez that the cops pass “066” calls—the anonymous tip line—right through to the cartel. So if a citizen tries to aid an investigation, that citizen is likely to become the subject of the next one.

  But now the latest victims are cops.

  Parking the car, Pablo gives the parquero at the corner a five-peso coin not to steal the tires, and walks down the street until he finds Abrego. He’s in his powder-blue uniform with a dark blue flak jacket with white lettering: POLICÍA MUNICIPAL.

  Pablo doesn’t begrudge him the protective vest; he almost wishes he had one himself.

  “I’m busy, Pablo,” Abrego says when he spots Pablo walking up the street.

  “I’m sorry about your people,” Pablo says.

  “No comment.”

  “Come on,” Pablo says. “Usual deal—deep source, no attribution. What’s going on?”

  It’s tricky, asking a cop questions after a brother officer has been murdered. They’re angry, sensitive, easily offended, and Abrego is no different. “What’s going on? Some narco garbage killed a police commander.”

  “Motive?” Pablo asks. “Leads?”

  “I guess Ledesma was pushing too hard and got someone angry,” Abrego says.

  “Vicente Fuentes?”

  Abrego shakes his head. “These weren’t locals.”

  “How do you know?”

  This pisses Abrego off. “Because I’d have heard something.”

  Pablo doesn’t know if Abrego is La Línea or not. He guesses not, but he’s not going to ask, either. “If they weren’t locals, who were they?”

  “Go to Sinaloa and ask.”

  “Adán Barrera?”

  Abrego hesitates and then says, “Cops have been getting calls. On their personal cell phones. Or other cops have been approaching them…”

  “And saying what?”

  “That ‘New People’ are moving in,” Abrego says. “The Sinaloa people, and you’d better get on the bus now.”

  If he’s right, Pablo thinks, at least five guys missed the bus.

  “Go away, Pablo,” Abrego says. “I have work to do, then I have a funeral to attend.”

  —

  Pablo takes a Chihuahua state homicide investigator to lunch.

  Comandante Sánchez isn’t fooled by the social gesture—in Mexico no less than the rest of the world, there is no such thing as a free lunch. So after polishing off a plate of excellent camarones, he looks across the table at Pablo and asks, “Pues?”

  “What’s going on in Juárez?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Did you get a phone call, too?” Pablo asks.

  “From whom?”

  “The ‘New People.’ ”

  “Who told you about that?”

  Pablo doesn’t answer.

  Then Sánchez says, “As a matter of fact, I did. On my private phone, and how did they get that number? What we’re hearing is they approached division commanders with money. I guess Ledesma didn’t take it.”

  “Would you like another beer? I think I would.” Pablo signals the waiter and then turns back to Sánchez. “Are we looking at an invasion here?”

  “You’re so well informed, you tell me.”

  “Okay,” Pablo says, starting to get annoyed with the game. “Is this Adán Barrera putting the empire back together?”

  Sánchez says, “You were a kid then.”

  “I heard the stories.”

  The waiter sets two cold cervezas on the table and then, at a glance from Sánchez, steps away.

  “Do yourself a favor,” Sánchez says. “Don’t hear stories now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  “Oh, come on.” The food has helped Pablo’s general condition, as has the beer, but he still has a headache and all this silly subterfuge makes it worse. The whole world knows about Adán Barrera—there have been books, novels, movies, television shows. The narcos are a media franchise, for God’s sake, this generation’s version of the Mafia.

  “That was the old days, wasn’t it?” Pablo asks. “The cartels, the patrones—they’re all dead or locked up. Even Osiel Contreras is in prison.”

  “But Adán Barrera is out.”

  Pablo is annoyed and eager to finish up the interview. “So what are you saying? There’s going to be a ‘war’? Barrera is moving in on Juárez?”

  “I’m saying you’d be better off not hearing any more stories,” Sánchez says. He reaches across the table for the bill.

  A new one on Pablo.

  He’s never seen a cop pick up the check before.

  —

  It takes Pablo three hours to track down Ramón, but he finally finds his old schoolmate at the Kentucky, near the Santa Fe Bridge that crosses into El Paso.

  Pablo plops down on the stool beside Ramón. “Qué pasa?”

  “Nada.”

  Nothing my ass, Pablo thinks. If Ramón is hanging out by the border there’s a reason—he has a shipment going over. And it speaks to another truth about Juárez—everybody knows someone in the drug business.

  The Kentucky is classic Old Juárez. It came into being just a few weeks after Prohibition hit the United States as an easy place for gringos to come and get a drink. Sinatra used to hang out here, and Marilyn Monroe, and the legend—although Pablo doesn’t believe it—is that Al Capone visited once after making a deal for bootleg whiskey.

  But the bar is mostly famous for the birthplace of the margarita.

  That’s us, Pablo thinks, we’re known for other contraband, other countries’ movie stars, and fruity drinks.

  He orders an Indio.

  “Long time no see, ’mano,” Ramón says with a trace of resentment in his voice.

  It’s true, Pablo thinks—in high school they were buddies, hung out all the time, but then their lives took different turns. I got busy with work and other frie
nds and Ramón went to prison.

  Got caught jacking cars and did three years in Juárez’s deservedly notorious CERESO.

  If you wanted to survive there, you joined Los Aztecas.

  Ramón wanted to survive.

  The gang actually started in American prisons, where it’s called Barrio Azteca, but when the U.S. started to deport convicts who were also illegal aliens, the gang quickly spread to Mexican prisons.

  Then into the community.

  There are roughly six hundred Aztecas in Juárez, but they use kids from a lot of the little gangs, and the word is that they’re taking over more and more of the enforcement duties of the Juárez cartel. With La Línea, they control the drug trade in the northeast part of the city, while Los Mexicles and Los Aristos Asesinos control the southwest.

  Pablo’s heard the stories about how they exercise control—how they throw big parties and everyone cheers while they beat up a prisoner. Then they dig a hole, fill it with mesquite branches, throw the victim in, and light a match. Pablo doesn’t quite believe those stories and doesn’t believe that Ramón would do anything like that, but it’s a fact that the Juárez cartel gives Los Aztecas a discount on the cocaine that they traffic across the border.

  The gang makes a lot of money.

  Los Aztecas have a military structure—generals, captain, and lieutenants—and the last time Pablo heard, Ramón was a lieutenant on the way up. He looks like an Azteca—crew cut with a blue bandana, white sleeveless T-shirt, tattoos up his neck.

  Ramón looks Pablo up and down. “You look like shit, ’mano.”

  “Rough night.”

  “Looks more like a rough month,” Ramón says. “You need money?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “How’s Mateo?”

  “He’s good, thanks. Your guys?”

  “Isobel’s a little bitch on wheels,” Ramón answers, “but you already know that. Dolores is almost walking, and Javier, he’s playing fútbol now.”

  “No shit.”

  “You should come by sometime,” Ramón says.

  “I will.”

  “Watch a match on TV or something, burn some steaks…”

  “Sounds great.”

  Ramón signals the bartender for a refill on his whiskey and then asks, “So what brings you here now?”

  Pablo says, “A police lieutenant clipped.”

  “ ‘Clipped,’ ” Ramón says. “Listen to you, tough guy.”

  Pablo chuckles at his own pretensions, and then asks, “Who did it?”

  Ramón knocks his fresh drink down with one gulp and then asks, “You want to do some blow?”

  “I have to pick Mateo up,” Pablo says, shaking his head. That’s true, but the other truth is that he hasn’t done drugs in years. Okay, maybe a hit of yerba from time to time, but even that’s getting rare.

  “Anyway, walk out back with me,” Ramón says. Then he says to the bartender, “Narizazo.”

  Time to snort up.

  Pablo follows him out the back door into the alley. Ramón takes a vial of coke out of his jeans pocket, scoops a little onto his fingernail, and takes a hit. “They say it’s bad when you start using your own product. It’s just I’m so fucking tired these days, I need a little pick-me-up in the afternoon. So what were you asking me?”

  Pablo gets it. Yes, they came out here so Ramón could snort, but also to get away from the ears of the bartender. “These cop killings. Ledesma.”

  “Wasn’t us, ’mano.”

  Pablo pushes the envelope. “Was Ledesma La Línea? The others?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ramón answers. “Sinaloa wants this plaza, so they have to neutralize the cops. Clean cops, dirty cops, if they don’t get on board with Sinaloa, Sinaloa is going to take them off the board.”

  So there’s my story, Pablo thinks. The Sinaloa cartel has launched a systematic invasion and started with a strategic campaign against the Juárez cartel’s central strength—La Línea.

  It must have been in the planning for months—the intelligence and infiltration needed to get the officers’ phone numbers, their addresses, their daily habits and routes. There had to have been surveillance, phone taps, informants…

  Ramón shakes some more coke out on his finger and asks, “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” Pablo says. “So there’s going to be a war.”

  “Going to be?” Ramón asks. “What do you call those bodies out there? There is a war. It’s on.”

  “Los Aztecas in it?”

  “The price we pay, man,” Ramón says. “They don’t give us the cheap coke because we’re pretty. Up until now, it’s been taking care of a few malandros, now it’s going against Barrera’s pros. The big-league batters. But we gotta do what we gotta do, and all that bullshit.”

  They’re quiet for a few seconds, then Ramón adds, “I’m always proud of you, ’mano, every time I see your name in the paper. You did good for yourself.”

  Pablo doesn’t know what to say.

  Then Ramón grabs him by the elbow. “Don’t get too close to this world, it’s not anything you want. You need information, you come to me. Don’t go around asking a lot of questions. People don’t like it.”

  They say their goodbyes and talk about getting together maybe next Sunday, but they both know it isn’t going to happen. Pablo goes back to the office, writes up the story, and then goes to pick up Mateo.

  —

  Pablo waits out in front of the preschool.

  He really thought that Mateo was too young to start school, “pre” or otherwise, but Victoria argued successfully (of course she did; all of Victoria’s arguments are successful) that it was never too early to start, especially if they wanted to get him into a decent elementary school.

  Pablo suspects that the deeper motive was to free up more of her time for work. As she makes more money than he does, he was close to volunteering to give up the job at the paper, just freelance and be a stay-at-home dad for the next year or so, but some last vestigial trace of his machismo prevented him.

  He didn’t think that she would have agreed anyway, on the basis that Mateo’s days under his father would not have been sufficiently organized. Which would have been true, Pablo thinks as he watches the children burst out of the door. They would have been wonderfully disorganized.

  Mateo is the perfect combination of their union.

  His jet-black hair, her piercing (ouch) blue eyes. Her keen intelligence, his warmth. The relentless curiosity comes from both of them.

  Pablo is prejudiced, of course, but it is simply evident that Mateo is the handsomest child in the school. And the smartest, and the most charming, and doubtless, of course, the best fútbol player. Of course his entire future will be destroyed if he doesn’t get into the right elementary school, so Victoria believes.

  Mateo runs up and Pablo hugs him. It’s amazing, he thinks, that he never gets tired of that sensation.

  “How are you, Papi?”

  “Very well, m’ijo. And you?”

  “We colored zebras.”

  “Really?” Pablo asks. “Did they hold still for that?”

  Mateo squeals with laughter. “Papi!”

  “What?”

  “They were paper zebras!”

  “Paper zebras? I never heard of such a thing.”

  “Pictures of zebras!”

  “I see now.”

  “Silly Papi!”

  Pablo takes his hand and they start to walk toward the bus stop. This simple, normal activity is an intense relief from the insanity of “narco-world,” as he terms it.

  “Am I staying with you tonight?” Mateo asks now.

  “Yes.”

  “How many sleeps?”

  “What? Oh yes, for two sleeps.”

  “Yay.” He tightens his grip. Then he asks, “What are we doing?”

  “If you’d like,” Pablo says, “I thought we’d go to the park and kick the ball. Then Tío Tomás is reading from his book. Would you like to go to that?”
<
br />   “Can I bring coloring?”

  “Of course,” Pablo says. “Then Tía Ana is having a party. Tía Jimena will be there. Would you like to go to that?”

  “Will Tío Giorgio be there?”

  “Probably,” Pablo answers.

  Everyone loves Giorgio, he thinks.

  Me too.

  “Maybe he’ll let me take a picture,” Mateo says.

  “I’m sure he would,” Pablo says. “And if you get tired, you can fall asleep on Tía Ana’s big bed.”

  “Can we go to the zoo?” Mateo asks.

  “Saturday?”

  “Well, not today.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “What did you color your zebras?” Pablo asks.

  “Orange and blue.”

  Good, Pablo thinks.

  All this narco stuff is foolishness. All that matters is that his son is willing to color zebras in orange and blue.

  —

  The two rectangular boxes—one yellow, the other terra-cotta—of Cafebrería, sit on José Reyes Estrada Circle, just off the Plaza de las Américas and close to the university, and are the epicenter of the intellectual life of the city.

  It represents everything Pablo loves about Juárez.

  A coffeehouse, a bookstore, a gallery, a performance spot, a gathering place for everyone who cares about ideas and art and community, Cafebrería is almost literally the heart of the city for him.

  He goes there to see friends, meet new people, find interesting ideas, get into discussions and debates (which occasionally turn into arguments but never fights), listen to music, hear readings, buy books that he can neither afford nor resist, not to mention just get an honest strong cup of coffee that doesn’t come from a giant corporate chain, and sit in a quiet spot and read.

  Now he sits in a metal folding chair with Mateo at his feet happily coloring (a magenta and turquoise tiger this time) and listens to Tomás read from his latest novel. It’s a beautiful book and a beautiful reading, as one would only expect from Tomás Silva, whom Pablo regards as a national treasure.

  One thing that Pablo loves about Tomás’s readings is that there is no sense of irony in them. The author is serious about his work and reads it seriously, his sad eyes glowing from behind his glasses, his strong jaw set as if he’s reconsidering his words as he speaks them.