by Todd Merer
“I had no idea what was going to happen—”
“I’m not angry with you, Benn. I’m angry with myself. You preferred not seeing things, but I couldn’t do that. I’ve been thinking this way for a while. Maybe from the beginning. I don’t want my life to be helping criminals.”
I give Mady my JFK Sr. rationale. What else could a poor boy in Colombia do? Her answer is that I’m not a poor boy in Colombia. I have no answer for that.
“Things aren’t always black and white,” I say. “It’s not as if the government is always the good guy. Prosecutors are lawyers, just like me. And lawyers care only about winning. They all cheat and lie if they have to.”
“Like you, Benn.”
I figured after a few weeks that she’d come around. And that my work would all but vanish. I was wrong on both counts. Dozens of elements that had been part of the Cali cartel were operating on their own now, and new work flooded in. And Mady stayed away from the office, leaving me to soldier on alone. We didn’t see each other much. I’d come home, she’d be sleeping; I’d wake up, she’d be gone. She went back to school. Good for her, but bad for us. Out of sight, out of mind.
I started getting high. With other women. We divorced a year later.
A big part of me vanished with Mady. I’d met her when I was a law-school intern and she was a paralegal student. For a year, we eyeballed one another but no more. Then I became a state-court public defender, and she went to work for pretrial services and the inevitable happened. Man, those were the days. Growing the business by day, growing closer by night.
I received the final papers the same day I learned the names of Nacho’s killers. The Cali Cartel had been replaced by the North Valley Cartel. It wasn’t just the name that changed. The NVC bosses were an ugly crew of violent freaks. The Amputee. The Double-Aughts. The Butcher, who, when not drug dealing, enjoyed castrating cattle at one of his many grand fincas that had once been Nacho’s.
Rigo, they called him.
CHAPTER 11
Post-Nacho, Jamundí became infamous when one Colombian elite counternarcotics force working for a cartel murdered eleven members of another elite counternarcotics force working for the FARC guerillas. The battle was one of many over the spoils of Nacho’s kingdom. Those blood feuds from the old days continued to simmer today. I wasn’t looking forward to driving through Jamundí at night.
My worries were misplaced.
The van exited the highway and circled the town proper and proceeded along a single-lane blacktop. Ahead, a jagged ridgeline stood like dark teeth against a starry sky. Other than the van’s headlamps, the countryside was unlit.
The roadway tilted and became winding as we drove higher. Coming out of a bend, we slowed, entering the crowded dirt street of a town populated by Indians wearing purple ponchos. Which got me thinking of the legend of Sombra—the mystical figure who protected the Indians, who in turn protected him.
Then the town was gone, and we were on the winding road again, climbing higher and higher. We came out of a turn, and abruptly, the van slowed to a stop. I leaned closer to the rear window.
Armed soldiers were gathered around a jeep.
“Retené,” Paz whispered. Roadblock.
We heard voices from the front of the van: our driver exchanging pleasantries with the army officer. The voices lowered, and I guessed pesos were being passed, because then both men laughed and bid each other good night.
The van continued on, but slower now.
By the sound of the tires, we were on an unpaved road. After a few more miles in the middle of nowhere, we stopped. Our driver got out and opened the rear door, and we got out.
As my night vision adjusted, I became aware of men in the shadows. Burly men with Indian features, wearing bandoliers and carrying rifles.
Sombra’s Praetorian Guard?
There was a small house. A candle flickered within. A large man stood outlined in the doorway a few steps above us. In the dimness, I stumbled—ow!—the misstep tweaking my bad right knee. Happens sometimes. Hurts like hell when it does, but this was a time to suck it up.
The large man had Indian features. Jet-black hair. Neither young nor old. He wore a white cotton peasant shirt and trousers. He reminded me of Brando in Viva Zapata! No doubting his word was the others’ command. But was he a step or two above them, or was he at the top of the ladder? Was he Sombra?
His eyes were obsidian. They drilled into mine, and I had the queer sensation of his inspecting my mind. Checking nooks and crannies for my secrets. The Indian turned his gaze to Paz and nodded. Paz addressed me.
“Doctor, you are expert at negotiating with the American government, yes?”
“I have some experience.”
“The señor may wish a negotiation. For that, he wants to establish a relationship with you now. For your expenses, please accept this.”
The man who might be Sombra snapped his fingers, said, “Enano.”
Enano means midget. He was addressing the short man, the guy with the missing fingertips who’d led the posse that tried to take out Rigo in Antigua. A thought crossed my mind like a black crow: If Sombra were behind the attempt on Rigo, I might be next on his hit list.
But all Enano did was hand me an envelope that, by shape and weight, I guessed held a brick of money. If it was US currency, I figured it was fifty large. A nice-enough number, but from a guy like Sombra, a too-small token of appreciation. A fucking tip.
“Now I say thank you?” I muttered.
Paz said, “Sorry, I didn’t hear . . .”
“Tell him thank you,” I said.
“I’m informed the gentleman has a question,” Paz told me instead. “Doctor, in your experience, what drug-interdiction capabilities does the United States have in the far north Pacific?”
A question that came out of left field, and one I preferred not fielding. I assume these conversations are recorded. Therefore, my habit is to respond in words that could not be construed as how-to advice about criminal activity.
“I don’t really know,” I said. “If I had to guess, I’d say very little, if any at all. From what I understand, the United States’ resources are already stretched thin patrolling the southern ocean routes from South America.”
“And the interdiction capabilities of other nations in the area?”
I figured Sombra had designs on the growing market for cocaine on the far side of the Pacific Rim. “Again, I don’t know. My guess is none.”
Zapata gave me another long look. An evaluation, I supposed. But whether thumbs-up or thumbs-down was impossible to tell. Then he stood aside, and Enano came toward us. He went into his knapsack and took out an automatic pistol. It looked awkward, held in his shortened digits, but I saw that his finger was able to curl around the trigger.
I took an involuntary step back—
But Enano walked by me, raised the pistol, and shot it point-blank into the face of the van driver. The man dropped where he stood. Enano stepped over the body and got behind the wheel of the van.
I was too stunned to run, and where the fuck could I run to, anyway? Besides, Big Chief Motherfucker didn’t want to hurt me; he just wanted me to observe what happened to anyone not a team player.
“A necessity,” Paz whispered. “The driver could not be trusted to know the señor’s whereabouts.” Disturbing.
When we got back into the van, our phones were on the seats. As we drove off, I tried making sense of what had occurred. Clearly, Sombra had wanted to check me out before his next move . . . but the meet had been so perfunctory, I doubted anything would come of it.
“Let me see the envelope,” said Paz.
I gave it to him. As I’d expected, it contained fifty in Franklins. He began counting, but I was more concerned about the bigger picture.
Would there be a sequel? Or was I merely one of many attorneys summoned for Sombra’s inspection? Was the fifty a door prize for unlucky contestants?
Paz whispered, “Fifty. An indication t
hat you’ll be retained.”
“Why fifty thousand? Why not millions?”
“It was already agreed beforehand.”
“Sombra didn’t say word one.”
“That’s the way he is. Quiet. An observer. It’s said that he and his family have a magical ability to converse when they’re apart. So long as one of them is present, they all are as well.”
“Too bad they didn’t sweeten the pot.”
“God in his ways,” he said, pocketing his share and handing me mine. “My wife requires an operation. This will help pay for it.” He opened his wallet to a photograph of a young woman. His eyes were teary. “Of course, that’s an old photograph. Time passes so quickly.”
I was thinking the same thing. Years go by, and most lawyers don’t even get an opportunity to snag a Biggy. Unfortunately, I sensed that I’d whiffed; Sombra was passing on me.
Paz and I caught the last flight back to Bogotá.
It wasn’t until the wee hours that I slumped into my suite. My knee was hurting enough to limp, which in turn triggered my bad hip to creak, and it in turn inspired my lower back to scream. I gulped aspirin, thinking I’d stuck my neck out for a relative few bucks and a pointless meeting that also cost a man his life.
But at least I could make it to Foto’s New Year’s party.
Wrong. The next day I learned New York was in blizzard conditions. I could get to Panama, but there were no open flights from there to New York until January 3.
Problem was, Rigo’s arraignment was January 2.
The counter agent pecked around. “Hmm. I could get you to New York on January 1, but it won’t be a direct flight. You’ll have to lay over the night of December 31 in another city.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Which city?”
The person told me which.
I felt a sickening lurch in my gut as I confronted the true source of my greatest forebodings. Not the inability to outrun a volcanic eruption. Not the deadly surrender. Something much worse. Putting it another way?
Of all the cities on the old Spanish Main, I had to walk into . . .
ALUNE
I am a chess master. My life is an elimination tournament in which only the winners remain alive. In my first few games, I was ignorant of the players and their moves, but fortunately, my defense was unlike any my adversaries had seen. I did the opposite of what was expected. No fakes, no feints, no false attacks. Instead, I revealed all. I exposed my flaws and vulnerabilities . . . and, very slowly, my naiveté lowered my adversaries’ guards, my helplessness a magnet they could not resist. Then, when they set caution aside and entered my space, I locked the door behind them.
The king is dead. Long live the queen.
As one opponent breathed his last, he called me a Venus flytrap.
Younger Brother thought that hilarious. “It’s true,” he said.
At least, it was back then, when my only weapon was deception—pretending to be what I’m not—in order to survive. It not only worked but to my astonishment also quickly carried me to the very top of my business.
A perilous journey. I had no choice but to take risks. To expose my identity to those who might one day betray me. To personally make deals rather than let others be my face. Worst of all?
I mixed business with pleasure.
Somehow I survived, thanks to my brothers. It was like having six eyes, six ears, three brains. The drug business was a maze; the key to escaping was to know what was true and what wasn’t. We made all the right choices. We were invincible.
Was this a God-given miracle? The power of human nature?
Or are we really the People Who Know More?
When the American lawyer left, we agreed he was the right man for the job we had planned. We had no delusions. He had no stomach for violence, but he was money hungry. Despite our failed attempt to kill the dog Rigo in Antigua, the lawyer remained on the case. Clearly, he was frightened, but greed oiled his decision.
The failings of lawyers never cease to amaze me. They are consumed by dreams of large fees, but they let their money lie fallow. Buried in a box in a suburban backyard, neatly banded in a temperature-controlled vault, a memorized number of an otherwise-anonymous bank account.
But not this lawyer.
I know this lawyer.
He pretends to be normal while lurching through time and space. He lives for the pleasure of . . . pleasuring himself, no matter the cost. Hence, his ceaseless hunger to earn more. Simply put: he can be bought.
He has another flaw that might prove useful: he lives alone, shuns relationships, and yet he has a weakness for women.
I look at my brothers and see they are smiling. Agreeing.
Money and women. The poor lawyer has no chance.
CHAPTER 12
“Welcome to San Juan, Puerto Rico. All of us at InterCarib wish all of you a Happy New Year.”
I stirred in my cramped economy seat. I was in a foul mood. What a shitty way to approach the new year. Sombra wasn’t meant to be. Rigo was a promise. Same with Foto’s case.
Worst of all? I was headed to a city I didn’t want to be in, never, ever. The familiar route to the city from its airport ran parallel to a lagoon. Reflected neon from the far side pulsed on the dark water. I sensed energy coming off the hotel strip. The clock was ticking toward the New Year: the high rollers would be swarming the casinos, the discos growing louder by the minute.
Then across a bridge, and the last of the hotel lights receded behind, and my taxi started up the narrow peninsular road that led to the old city. Viejo San Juan. The road ran along a seaside cliff. Below it, the ocean was lined with the pale crests of breakers, rolling in from the Atlantic inexorably, like moths to a flame. Like me to Viejo San Juan. The city and the song whose lyrics always touched me: One day I will return to Viejo San Juan, to search for my love, and dream again.
I am foolishly sentimental.
We passed one of the sixteenth-century forts that enclose the old city. Drove uphill along the old cannon-notched battlements. That narrow street was Calle Sol. That one was Calle Luna. Sun and Moon. I’d seen them last . . . what, five years ago?
Who was I kidding?
Five years, three months, three weeks, two days ago.
VSJ looked the same. Always does, always will. VSJ was a historic district. Frozen in time. Traditional. New Year’s Eve being a family night, the streets were empty. Good. There were people who would recognize me, and I didn’t want my presence known.
In the Guaty airport, I’d squatted in a corner and recharged my device while trying to book a room in Puerto Rico. The Isla Verde hotels were closest to the airport. They were sold out for the holidays. I tried the beach hotels, but they were likewise sold out. I forced myself to try Old San Juan. El Convento had a room.
I hurried into the hotel with my head down. Thankfully, I didn’t know the desk clerk. The elevator bellhop seemed familiar, so I took the stairs to my floor. Along the corridors, oil lamps flickered on balconies. It was quiet, except for the rustle of fruit bats in the ancient níspero tree in the courtyard, and the occasional chirp of a coqui. These frogs are native only to Puerto Rico, and their cries brought back more memories: tropical nights, whiskey, music, amor . . .
Centuries ago, my room had been a nun’s cell, but now it was sleek and modern. And claustrophobic. I opened the balcony doors and stood there, looking at planted rooftops. The stream of memories was fast becoming a river. I went with the flow—
A whistle shrieked, followed a moment later by a whump.
Above, a rocket burst, a junior version of the New Year’s fireworks show. I looked at my watch. Ten before midnight. What was I doing feeling sorry for myself while the best view to watch the great show was steps away on the hotel terrace?
I hurried up the tiled staircase to the terrace floor, passing no one and nothing but carts filled with bottles of champagne on ice. I started toward the terrace, then stopped short.
No wonder the champagne.
It was intended for the hotel guests gathered on the roof for the same reason I had come. Doubtful any of them knew me, but I wanted to be alone. I reversed course, grabbed two bottles of the bubbly, went down the stairs, ducked out a side entrance.
I hurried up Calle Cristo and turned onto Calle San Sebastian, a cul-de-sac at whose end was an overlook. I stopped there.
Below, a row of residential houses ended at the gates of La Fortaleza, the governor’s palace. Ahead lay the dark waters of San Juan Bay and the distant lights of the far shore. To the right was the great lawn sweeping up to Castillo del Morro, whose turreted mass was dimly visible against the darker sky.
One minute to twelve.
I didn’t want to be here, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I was my own audience, trying to understand my character.
A cat scampered past the row of houses below.
A few desultory rockets burst on the far shore.
Thirty seconds. Fucking Viejo San Juan—
Up and down the long reach of the far coast, rockets began bursting, and all at once my gloom was gone. I undid wire from a cork. I’d drink champagne to resolutions I would make happen. I swore that.
Five . . . four . . . three—
So help me God.
Two . . .
The solitary rockets fused to a stream of bright explosions, moments later followed by echoed whumps.
From below the overlook came closer sounds: a door opening, water splashing. Another New Year’s tradition observed in VSJ: throwing water out at the stroke of midnight. Out with the old. The fucking irony of my life—
The opened house cast an oblong of light on the wet, gleaming cobblestones. A man and a woman appeared. His hair was silver, his suit dark. The woman’s legs were slender. I blinked hard but still saw the same thing: beautiful people in a still photograph from an old noir film.
I drew a breath so sharp, my heart felt pierced.
I drowned the pain in champagne. In one long glug, a whole bottle poured down my upraised throat. Rivulets ran into my hair, down my chest. I emptied the bottle, opened the second—
