by Todd Merer
“They say you smell bad,” he said to me. “Go for a swim.”
The Indians were grinning. I shed my clothes and dived in. The sea was cool. On the beach, the Indians were forcing Enano into the water. He protested until stepping off a sand shelf so his head dropped below the surface. He came up sputtering. Funny. I laughed along with the Indians.
They gave me cotton clothing and a canteen. Rubbed leaves between their palms until they became pasty, then smeared their bodies and wiped their faces. They motioned for me to do the same. I did. The stuff felt medicinal in a minty way. When I lowered my hands, colors seemed brighter. Enano asked for leaves, but there were no more. The Indians thought that funny, too. Enano got angry. He cursed and put his hand atop his gun—
Faster than I comprehended, the smaller Indian twisted Enano’s grip and took the gun away. An automatic. He jacked a round from the chamber and removed the clip, then threw the weapon into the jungle.
We mounted horses, and the bigger Indian led us into the jungle. Him, me, Enano, the other Indian. The path was narrow. My horse knew the way, plodding behind the horse ahead. Beneath the treetop canopy, the air was cool.
We rode for several hours, always on an incline, higher into the Sierra.
My butt was rubbed raw. I lost my sense of direction. I had no idea of how far we had come or how much farther it was or why the fuck we were going there. All I knew was that it was not to see Sombra, who was called Bolivar and sat in an SHU cell of MCC Brooklyn four thousand miles away . . .
Around noon, we entered a clearing. Long miles away and below I glimpsed the sparkling Caribbean. Longer miles above us were snowcapped peaks. The mountainsides were cleft by streams and waterfalls. Spread miles apart along the top of a semicircular ridgeline were clustered villages, smoke rising from their cooking fires.
We rode on.
Gradually, late afternoon gave way to early evening. The jungle cooled and darkened—
Ahead, a light flickered.
We’d come to the edge of the jungle where the tree line gave way to the páramo, the Andean plateaus below the peaks. Above was a star-filled sky. A patrol of men on horseback cantered past. Further on we passed a sandbagged trench where I glimpsed a shoulder-carried antiaircraft missile. I realized this was the village of the Logui, the lost tribe of the Nevadas.
Their village had an air of permanence: a grid of immaculately thatched houses, the streets hard packed. There were people about: men, women, and children, none of whom paid us the least attention.
I slid from my mount. I was led to a stone hut. Large, circular, covered with moss. When I entered, the door shut heavily behind me. A bolt was thrown.
I was alone.
Next to one wall stood a waxen mountain of candle drippings atop which a single candle burned. In the center of the space was a plank table and brightly woven seating below a domelike roof. A cooking fire whose smoke ventilated through an oculus. Food and drink were laid out. Fish, grains, vegetables. I ate voraciously.
Sated, I lay staring at the oculus, the smoke dissipating, changing form.
I wondered: What now? The beginning? Or the beginning of the end?
A memory tugged at me. A sensory recollection.
An herbal scent that became tangible—
CHAPTER 70
“Hello, Benn,” Laura Astorquiza said. It was her aroma—herbal. Both delicate and earthy—that alerted me to her presence. She wore white cotton and her hair loose. Her expression was placid, as if her presence was perfectly natural. I had no idea how she’d entered the hut. Had she been inside all along, observing me?
“Benn has so many questions, he’s not sure where to begin.”
“No need for me to ask. You’re going to tell me.”
She laughed. “You know me so well.”
We’d met but once, briefly at Foto’s party, and yet it was true. I felt as if I knew her well, as if we had a shared history. Again, I inhaled her scent, and suddenly another gap in my memory filled; a recollection of another time and place so astounding I had to will myself not to blurt it out. Not yet.
“I’m here because I believe in Sombra,” she said. “You’re surprised?”
I nodded. “Mildly. Like learning Joan of Arc was English.”
“Then and now, there’s only one crusade. Defending the defenseless. Were it not for Sombra, the Logui and the other tribes would have been eradicated. If there were no Sombra, there’d still be drugs. But instead of the profits buying cheap women and vulgar mansions, they are used to ensure that an ancient civilization survives. Choosing Sombra is choosing the greater good.”
Or the lesser evil, I thought. There was nothing good about drugs, nor about those who sold them. Sombra was not the first drug lord to cloak himself in populism; witness the political ploys of Nacho’s archenemy, Pablo Escobar.
“Did you expect Sombra to be here?” she asked.
I locked my baby blues with Laura’s big browns for a long moment before I replied. “Just between us, I’m relieved he’s not. Sombra kills those who can identify him.”
“How do you know that?”
“I had a client named Rigo. He was murdered because he was going to identify Sombra.”
Laura nodded thoughtfully. “Did Rigo share that information with you?”
“He didn’t trust me. He was going to use it to negotiate his release.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was told so by a lawyer who himself was killed because he knew who Sombra was. His name was Paz. He didn’t share the information with me, either.”
“So, you’ve no idea of Sombra’s identity?”
I knew I was walking a razor’s edge. Shaking my head might cost me my balance. I needed to stabilize. “I’m not sure. At first, I thought it was someone the lawyer Paz introduced me to.”
“At first? But no longer?”
“No. Then I thought Sombra was a Russian named Kursk.”
“A Russian? What made you think that?”
“Kursk approached me to discuss a client of mine. A man named Bolivar. A Colombian. I had the impression Kursk feared Bolivar would identify him—Kursk—as Sombra.”
Laura nodded to herself, as if confirming a thought. “Has it occurred to you that Sombra is not a man, but a myth?”
I shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t want to know. Neither should you, Laura. It’s too dangerous.”
She drew a breath as if composing herself. “This man Bolivar also knows Sombra. I wanted you here so you could look in my eyes and promise you’ll do whatever it takes to gain Bolivar’s release. Will you?”
“I already told Kursk I would.”
“I want to hear it myself. And it’s not just Bolivar. There’s a woman close to Kursk who knows. The wealthy widow. Stand aside from her, and whatever happens, happens.” She waited a moment to make sure I was registering what she said. “We’re clear then, Benn?”
“Not yet. Why did you drug me?”
To my surprise, Laura laughed. “I was wondering when you’d realize it was me. It was for insurance. Without money, you’d be desperate to earn more. If your records were given to the government, you’d be ruined. I needed to be certain you’d do whatever was necessary to free Bolivar.”
“Why bring me here?”
Her eyes grew soft, and she leaned closer across the table and traced her hand along my cheek. This close, her scent was engulfing, my thoughts replaced by desire. I feared her yet wanted her.
“So you could hear it from me that your records will be returned and your money a thousandfold. Just carry out your part of the bargain.”
I nodded. Our lips were close . . .
But then she hesitated; her eyes no longer focused on me, but past me. In that instant, I felt a sense of loss: I knew our moment had passed, and why. The worlds in which we dwelled were too far apart. Despite all the justifications, she reveled in being a drug dealer . . .
And yet I’d been ready to take part in an affair that surely
would end badly. And now I suffered the inevitable loss of a man watching the last vestige of his younger self disappear. I knew Laura Astorquiza was the last young woman who’d been, however briefly, attracted to me for myself alone. There goes my baby . . .
She stood. “Good night, Benn.”
She left the hut. A single flame still flickered atop the waxen shrine. It was what she had been looking at. Above the melted wax was a faded photograph of a man. I was curious because the Indians did not allow their photographs to be taken. I looked closer.
The man in the photograph stood atop a pyramid of crates filled with weapons: small arms, ammunition, mobile missiles. His face was familiar. Bespectacled, calm.
Nacho Barrera.
CHAPTER 71
A single rider guided me down the mountain. Wearing crossed bandoliers and a slung rifle, he reminded me of a Plains Indian warrior. We rode through the night without exchanging a word. A rusted pickup waited on the beach. By early afternoon, he delivered me to Cartagena’s Núñez International Airport. Not long ago, I’d been there as a fugitive. Now I was a frequent-flying gringo dumb-lucky enough to keep his passport in a money belt. I caught the next flight to Miami, and as soon as we were wheels up closed my eyes.
I awoke to the announcement that we were about to land in Miami. My head was clogged with a morass of thoughts, but I was fixed on only one. Jilly. Laura’s comment confirmed Jilly was Sombra’s next target. I had no idea why, but my obligation was clear. To hell with what I’d promised Laura, I had to warn Jilly that she was in the crosshairs.
The gates to Jilly’s estate were open. I drove through. At the end of the shell driveway, men driving forklifts were loading Jilly’s garden of art into trucks. I got out and approached them.
“Junkyard, here we come,” I said to the foreman.
He laughed. “What crap. Nicely welded, though. He’p you?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for Mrs. Chennault.”
“Afraid I don’t know the lady.”
A fork driver said, “The blonde.”
“Oh, her. Some guys have all the luck.”
Guys like talking about gals. I got right into it. “You said it,” I said. “Babes like her don’t come around often. Not to mention that she’s rich. All this stuff, it’s worth millions, they say.”
“Tens of millions, I heard,” the boss said.
“Why don’t we sell it?” the driver said.
“Because we ain’t got the right pedigree for the people who buy it. Coming from us, it’s scrap. Coming from the rich lady, it’s priceless.”
“She’s selling it?” I said.
“Sold already, I think. This Russian who’s supposed to have more money than God bought it for his pad in New York. Must be some kind of big place if he can fit this shit in.”
I got back into my hired car and headed to the airport. Apart from conveying a warning, I’d wanted to see Jilly. I wasn’t sure why. I just wanted to see her. The thought made me smile. I’d failed to capture a beautiful raptor; now I was ready to settle for a wounded dove.
But I was destined to fly solo. About to enter uncharted territory, the consequences of which were extreme. Joaquin Bolivar’s trial would be loaded with twists and turns. Kandi would be waiting to pounce.
At the end, I might be rich and free.
Or poor and jailed. Or dead.
And yet, I felt like singing.
Ever since I’d started cooperating clients, I’d missed trial work and all its uncertainties. The need to think on my feet. The joy of victory and agony of defeat. Be careful what you wish for. Now I had myself a trial, and not only my ego but my personal and professional life was on the line. More important, I was up against an opponent I dearly wanted to crush. The mere thought of Kandi Kauffman riled me.
It was time to hone my anger.
Time to begin training.
Which meant no more Bison Grass or little blue pills for the duration because, contrary to popular belief, trials are not won in the courtroom but during preparation.
I’d be ready.
Oh yes.
CHAPTER 72
Bonesy said, “Don’t you ever take a day off?”
It was Memorial Day, and I was wearing my civvies: jeans, loafers, blazer, and shirt unbuttoned at the collar. For once, the MCC lobby was empty. While signing in to the legal-visit entry book, I spotted the signatures of previous visitors that took me aback.
I passed through the metal detector and got my hand stamped—another illegible fluorescent smear beneath CONTROL’s black light—and went through the final air lock that opened into the visit room.
It, too, was empty. I was the only desperado working on the holiday.
I walked to the far end and fortified myself with machine-made coffee. Black, two sugars. I took a gulp that burned my tongue. I blew on the cup and cautiously sipped.
Over its rim, I saw the big visit room at the end. Unlit now, jam-packed with Natty Grable’s case discovery cartons: stacks and stacks of them, a maze. I knew Plitkin hadn’t read page one. No need to. When satisfied he’d squeezed every dollar from Natty, he’d make the same deal as the codefendants who’d already pled.
It was Natty Grable’s signature in the visit book that had disturbed me, along with, immediately below it, the signature of another visitor I knew.
Bolivar appeared in an overlarge orange SHU jumpsuit draping his frame. He’d changed for the worse. Lost a lot of weight, tan faded to a wan complexion, hair longer and even lanker than before. He’d morphed from Latin Lover to Billy Trash. Nothing like the man I’d met less than six months ago in La Picota. I tossed the coffee aside and offered my hand—
He recoiled as if I were a leper. Close up, his eyes were sunken. “Nothing personal. I had the flu, and with trial coming up, I don’t want you catching it.”
We went into a glass-walled visit room.
“Trial still on July sixth?” he asked.
“You have another appointment?”
“Guys in here talk shit. That trial dates always change, how one month can be one year.”
I thought about how Bolivar had been anxious about the specific date of the escape attempt. The US Marshals would make sure that wouldn’t happen again. “Trials get delayed. But yours won’t. First day is Monday, the sixth of July, right after the July Fourth weekend.”
“When we getting the thirty-five hundred material?” he asked.
Section 3500 of Title 18 of the US Code mandated that prosecutors give the defense all previous statements made by witnesses—crucial in Bolivar’s case, since the evidence against him was solely testimonial.
“At the final status conference,” I said.
He nodded to himself as if checking off a mental list of questions. His movements were jittery. I supposed the reality of a trial that would determine the rest of his life was sinking in. I was reasonably sure he would cut a deal. Fine with me. I wouldn’t get my duel with Kandi, but it made my fee much more probable. I had no illusions about Paz’s $20 million fee babble; that was just chumming the waters, a promise that wouldn’t be kept. Right there and then, I’d have settled for a plea, another million in my pocket, and a long vacation.
“You know a woman named Jilly, right?” I asked.
“How many times are you going to ask?”
“Until you and your people leave her alone.”
“I have no beef with a woman named Jilly.”
I took out the discovery material. Set down the DEA photographs of the Swan. Bolivar shrugged. He did the same when seeing photographs of the master cabin; its bed with unmade sheets, table with candle, wine bottle and glass, bitten apple.
“Anything about any of this I need to know?” I said.
“You tell me. The truth and nothing but, clear?”
He gave me a mean look. I knew I was coming down hard but didn’t care if it rankled him. If he flipped, I’d be privy to his deepest dark secrets he didn’t want known, and he’d be making nice all the way to
my bank. If he surprised me by actually going to trial, our slim chance of winning depended on me running the show. Either way, he needed me.
“If we were a country,” I said, “you’d be its president, but I’d be chairman of the joint chiefs of staff. You run the show in peacetime, but come to war, you listen to me. Trial is a time of war. You speak only when necessary; otherwise, shut the fuck up.”
For a moment, he was silent. Then, as if swallowing his anger, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded. “Okay, General, what’s next?”
“The thirty-five hundred discovery.”
We stood to leave. Again, I offered my hand, but he pretended not to see it. That provoked me to thinking that Bolivar wasn’t worried about my catching his flu—no, he feared being poisoned, the way Mondragon had killed Rigo Ordoñez. At Bolivar’s orders, of course.
Which raised a very interesting question: Did he think his people wanted him dead? I took that as evidence that he was planning to flip on them. But did they know? Did Laura know? The thought of her aging in a federal cage was depressing.
“Look me in the eye,” Bolivar said. “Say you’re going to get me out of here.”
I looked him in the eye. “I’m going to do what I can to make that happen.”
“For your sake,” he said, holding my gaze, “you better come through.”
ALUNE
Like all people, I am composed of dual natures. Opposing thoughts. I am wildly sexual yet so selective in my choice of partners that I am nearly abstinent. I am possessed of my ancestors’ civilized genius and native intelligence. I have opposing visions of my future: of living a private life, or as a public servant. My schooling came in a combination of two disparate environments: my Spanish heritage, and my English-language education. I enjoy the best of both worlds. I can read the literary greats in their native tongues. Shakespeare in English. Cervantes in Spanish.
At times, I must choose between their differing wisdoms.
Shakespeare: “The first thing, let’s kill all the lawyers.”
Cervantes: “The lawyer is as transparent as glass.”
