The Governor's wife

by Mark Gimenez

"No, jefe. I am not worthy enough to pray to God."

  "Felipe, your family will never go hungry or homeless."

  " Gracias, jefe. "

  Enrique held the machete out to Julio.

  "Take it, my son, and dispense justice."

  His son now appeared nauseous.

  "Father, I cannot."

  "Son, this is not a pleasant task, I know, but it is a necessary one. If the people of Nuevo Laredo are to one day look to Julio de la Garza for justice, you must be strong enough to dispense justice. Man enough."

  He saw the hurt in his son's soft face. He was not strong like his older brother. He was shy and sensitive, like his madre. Since his mother's death, Julio had never been the same. Sometimes Enrique worried that his son was homosexual, but he quickly put such thoughts out of his mind.

  "I am sorry, Julio. You are your mother's son, with the gentle soul."

  Enrique turned back to Felipe Pena, grasped the handle with both hands, raised the blade above his head, and then swung the machete down with great force, cutting Felipe's head off cleanly. His head fell the hundred feet to the river below. Blood spurted from his open neck. Hector grabbed Felipe's legs and flipped him over the railing. His body now joined his head in the Rio Bravo.

  Enrique exhaled and suddenly felt tired. Dispensing justice in an unjust world always made him feel weary. He carried every judgment with him like a cross. But justice was his burden to bear. And he had learned that nature disqualified some men from honorable lives. He now heard a gagging sound and turned to see Julio throwing up over the rail. He handed the boy his silk handkerchief.

  "Run along now."

  Julio walked quickly inside but stopped when Enrique called out to him.

  "Oh, Julio, your Bach-it was very nice. Muy bueno."

  " Gracias, padre."

  "Did the tutor arrive for your sister?"

  "Yes, Father, she is here."

  "Tell her I want to discuss Carmelita's progress in reading the ingles. Last night, when she read to me, she did not understand many of the words."

  "I will tell her, Father."

  "Also talk to your sister about spring break-where would you children like to go? Perhaps Cancun? We will make plans over dinner with your brother."

  They used to take family vacations to Europe, but with the international warrants for his arrest and apprehension and the $10 million bounty on his head, their vacations were now restricted to friendlier venues. Cancun was always nice. And California, of course.

  "Yes, Father."

  Julio made a hasty exit. Fortunately, Enrique's first-born son would one day be man enough to dispense justice in Nuevo Laredo. Julio would never be man enough.

  "He is a good boy."

  Hector said nothing, but Enrique knew he thought his second-born son weak. Enrique decided not to address the matter again. Not now, at the end of the day. The sun would soon fade into the Rio Bravo; the breeze had turned cooler and held the promise of a fine evening. He pointed the machete up to the clear sky.

  "Hector, I saw on the Fox News that the gringos have deployed a Predator drone over the border."

  "That is correct, jefe. From the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station."

  "I do not like it in my sky over Nuevo Laredo. Please shoot it down."

  Hector gazed skyward.

  "They will not be happy if we do."

  "Who?"

  "The gringos."

  "Hector, I did not ask if it would make the gringos happy. I simply asked that you shoot it down."

  Hector was a former captain in the Mexican Army's special forces. He had been trained in counterinsurgency tactics and advanced weapons systems by the U.S. Army, to fight the very cartel that now employed him. Enrique had offered him a substantial raise. "If you are a paid killer," he had said to Hector, "why not be well paid?"

  "The drone, it flies at an altitude of over seven thousand meters."

  "What would it take?"

  "A missile."

  Enrique grunted. "Then let us purchase a missile. Surely the Russians have what we require." He gazed skyward again. "I would very much like to shoot that Predator down."

  Hector shrugged. "Okay. I will shoot it down."

  " Bueno. "

  He handed the bloody machete to Hector for cleaning then waved to the Border Patrol agents who had witnessed the termination of Felipe Pena from the far riverbank. Hector exited the office, and Enrique returned inside and to his phone conversation with his broker.

  "I have returned, Senor Richey. Terminating employees is a difficult affair."

  "Tell me."

  Enrique checked his clothing-a Tommy Bahama silk camp shirt over silk slacks and leather huaraches — for blood. A few droplets had splattered his trousers.

  "Do you use baking soda or ginger ale for blood stains on silk?"

  His broker's voice on the speakerphone: " What? Blood stains? Silk what?"

  "Trousers. No matter, there are more where these came from. So, where were we?"

  "I asked if that was gunfire."

  "Oh, yes, it was. Just a little target practice."

  "Skeet?"

  " Gringos. So, Senor Richey, to resolve this dispute honorably, you must restore half a billion dollars to my account within three business days or I will be forced to file a complaint."

  There was laughter on the phone.

  "Mr. de la Garza, you can file a complaint with the SEC or the FBI or the NFL, I don't give a shit. But it'll be a cold fucking day in hell before my firm refunds half a billion dollars to anyone. You don't know who you're dealing with-we're connected in D.C. The Feds don't fuck with us. So you can file your complaint with God Himself, but you ain't getting your money back."

  Enrique chuckled.

  "Oh, no, Senor Richey, I file my complaints with Hector Garcia."

  "Who the hell's Hector Garcia?"

  "He is the head of my complaint department. When a customer fails to pay his account timely or the government interferes with my business or a business associate acts dishonorably toward me, Hector Garcia resolves my complaint. And he will resolve my complaint with you by walking up to you one dark night there in New York City and putting a gun to your head and saying, 'You should not have dishonored Enrique de la Garza,' and then he will put a bullet through your brain."

  There was no laughter now.

  "Who the fuck-? You can't threaten me! This is America!"

  "No, mi amigo — this is Nuevo Laredo."

  Enrique disconnected his broker and shook his head in amusement.

  Gringos.

  They think we are just the stupid Mexicans to be taken advantage of by the smart Americans. We run a thirty-billion-dollar-a-year enterprise, but we are stupid? We transport fifteen thousand metric tons of marijuana, cocaine, and heroin north across the border annually-despite fifty thousand federales on this side and twenty thousand Border Patrol agents on that side-but we are stupid? We launder thirty billion U.S. dollars through banks in America, Panama, Ecuador, and Europe each year, but we are stupid? And now the gringos open their roads and highways under NAFTA to Mexican trucks- even though they know the cartels now own the Mexican trucking companies! — thus allowing us to ship our dope directly to every town and city in America, but we are stupid? Ah, but the gringos must believe that we are just the stupid Mexicans because that allows them to feel better about themselves- allows them to feel superior to the rest of the world — even though they are the ones smoking, snorting, and shooting all that filthy dope into their bodies.

  Oh, to be so stupid.

  Enrique de la Garza employed American brokers and bankers, lawyers and accountants, financial planners and investment advisors; none asked too many questions, such as "Where do you get all this cash from?" He was one of three hundred individuals identified as off-limits to U.S. banks under the Foreign Narcotics Kingpin Act, so the U.S. government can say they are doing something to stop the drug trade, but their government does not enforce their own law because the banks wan
t their profits. Just as the gringos want his products. Oh, the appetite they have for the marijuana and the heroin and the cocaine! Insatiable. And extremely profitable. Enrique's empire had grossed over $5.5 billion U.S. last year and was on track to gross $6 billion this year. His personal net worth now exceeded $7 billion; he had billions invested in U.S. real estate, stocks, and bonds. He ranked one hundred thirty-four on the Forbes list of billionaires. Twenty-four years ago, he had started with nothing but a Harvard degree, and now he had an empire that spanned the globe. Markets in North America, South America, and now even to Europe he transported his products via a fleet of 747s-there was no radar over the Atlantic Ocean-something no other cartel had even imagined. By land, by sea, by air, even by tunnels two miles long he transported his products north, always one step ahead of the gringos. Innovation, that was the key to staying ahead of the competition and foreign authorities. Enrique de la Garza possessed vision-he saw what others could not even imagine. And now, at forty-six years of age, he had it all-wealth, power, respect, the admiration of his people, good children-everything a man could desire… everything except the love of a woman. His eyes returned to the image frozen on the television.

  A woman like her.

  He often found himself longing for a woman again. For love. For romance. His wife had always said he was a hopeless romantic, and perhaps he was. But he had been without romance since her death five years before. Five years he had mourned for his beloved Liliana. He still loved her; he would always love her. But he wanted to love and be loved again, to feel a woman close to him-not a woman who wanted his money; those women he could have any day-but a woman who wanted him, as Liliana had.

  Perhaps a woman like the governor's wife.

  He stepped to the full-length mirror on the wall and examined himself. He was well-mannered and well-groomed, educated and sophisticated, still lean and fit from his beisbol days, but… gray streaks now marred his jet-black hair and goatee and made him look old. As old as he often felt. Older than his years. When he watched American baseball on the cable channels, always the advertisements were for the erectile dysfunction drugs and hair color for men. Enrique had no need for Viagra, not yet, but… He ran his fingers through his hair and stroked his goatee just as the door opened and Hector appeared.

  "?Jefe! "

  Enrique raised an open hand.

  "Hector, do you think I should use that 'Just for Men'?"

  "Just for what?"

  "The hair color. To wash away the gray."

  "Oh."

  Hector was bald.

  "Uh, I do not know, jefe."

  "Do you think she would find me more attractive?"

  "Who?"

  Enrique gestured at the television screen.

  "The governor's wife."

  "Oh, yes. Definitely."

  "You are not just saying that?"

  "No, no."

  "Hector, I need a woman-"

  "I will go get you one."

  "No, not that kind of woman. A wife. A mother for Carmelita."

  It was very difficult these days to be a single parent with all the bad influences on children-the Internet, cable TV, violent video games, iPhones-he had caught Carmelita texting a boy at her school the other night. She was only ten! He wished their mother were still alive. She knew how to raise children. And how to be firm. Sweet Carmelita, she knew how to wrap her father around her little finger.

  "Make a note for Hilda. Next time she comes to cut my hair, have her bring that hair color."

  " Si."

  "Now what is it that you need, Hector?"

  "?Jefe!?Esto es urgente! Your son needs you!"

  Enrique de la Garza-known to the rest of the world as El Diablo-turned from the mirror and took one last long look at the woman's image on the television screen.

  "She is a very beautiful woman, no? I should like very much to meet her one day, the governor's wife."

  FIVE MONTHS BEFORE

  TEN

  The governor's wife stifled a yawn.

  The heat and her county fair lunch of fried chicken, fried okra, fried ice cream, fried Twinkies, fried butter-every four years the governor's wife had to prove to the voters that she was still a country girl who ate country food-had conspired to make her drowsy. But she fought her heavy eyelids. It would not do her husband's campaign any good for the cameras to catch her yawning during his speech. Standing at the podium a few feet away, Governor Bode Bonner bellowed sound bites in his booming campaign voice.

  "We got boys marrying boys and girls marrying girls and kids having kids and Mexicans having Americans and…"

  Of course, it was difficult not to yawn when she had heard the same speech a hundred times, maybe more. She knew every crowd-pleasing phrase, every pause for effect, every applause line… and she hated every word of it.

  She wanted to scream.

  She always put her mind somewhere else during his speeches, tried not to listen to her husband's words and hoped he didn't believe them, that he was just an actor on a stage reciting his lines. But was he? Had he come to believe his own speeches? She feared he had. That he had bought into his own ambition.

  He wanted to be president.

  A faint hint of smoke from the wildfires out west and a stronger scent of farm animals filled the stock show arena at the Lubbock County Fairgrounds where that very morning the governor's wife had presented the prize for the Grand Champion Bull. The governor now stood before ten thousand registered Republicans gazing up at him like a flock of sheep, waving little American flags, and eating up his red-meat stump speech, the one in which he railed against the federal government, Washington, deficits, taxes, global warming, gay marriage, ObamaCare, liberals, and illegal Mexican immigrants.

  "What part of illegal don't they understand? They don't need a path to citizenship-they need a path to the border!"

  Amarillo on Tuesday, Midland on Wednesday, and Lubbock on Thursday. A campaign swing through the rural counties of West Texas-the Bible Belt of Texas. The brightest red counties in a bright red state. Tea party country. Bode Bonner country. Cattle ranches, cotton farms, and oil wells. Where the people loved their governor and hated their government-except the government that gave them farm and ranch subsidies and tax breaks for oil. They liked that part of government. But her husband was a politician, so he told them what they wanted to hear.

  "They want to pick your doctor and indoctrinate your kids… They took Christ out of Christmas and prayers out of school…"

  And she now wondered, as she often wondered when out on the campaign trail: How did she get from a cattle ranch in Comfort to a stump speech in Lubbock?

  The first day of April had Lindsay Bonner longing for home. Not the Governor's Mansion-that had never been home to her-but their ranch in the Hill Country north of San Antonio. Her family had moved to Texas when she was five and Comfort when she was fifteen. At twenty-two, she had married Bode Bonner and moved to his family's five-thousand-acre ranch. That had been her home until eight years ago when they moved into the Mansion. She missed the ranch. She missed the small hacienda-style house with the courtyard and the flowers and the shade trees. She missed spring when the days were warm and the nights cool, when the green returned to the pastures, and the bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush covered the hills like a blanket of blue and red and yellow. She missed riding with Ramon and cooking with Chelo. She missed spring roundup with the vaqueros. Lindsay Bonner much preferred working cattle than working crowds. She was a reluctant politician's wife.

  Her husband was not a reluctant politician.

  "When it's hot and dry, they say it's global warming. When it's cold and wet, they say it's global warming. Hell, in Texas we call it summer and winter."

  The crowd cheered. They loved him. And Bode Bonner loved them. He craved attention, whether from football fans or registered Republicans. She did not. He had always been the star; she had always lived in his sizable shadow from that day in ninth grade when Bode Bonner, senior football star,
had walked up to her in the hallway and asked her to the homecoming dance. The moment she said yes, she had taken up residence in his shadow. And there she had lived the past twenty-nine years. But now she needed more. Not more attention. Not more from a man. But more from life.

  Her own life.

  Politics had destroyed their lives. Her life, anyway. Bode had gone on to the University of Texas and majored in football. By the time she arrived at UT in his senior year, his shadow consumed the entire campus. When the NFL passed on Bode Bonner due to the four knee operations, he returned to the family ranch. After she graduated with a nursing degree, she had become Mrs. Bode Bonner. He ranched cattle; she worked in the emergency room at a San Antonio trauma hospital. She was happy then; she had her own life and the life they shared. Then Becca came into their lives, and they were happier. She would never forget Bode lifting the little girl up onto his horse, sitting her in the saddle in front of him, and the two of them galloping off. It was a glorious moment. Becca Bonner was Bode Bonner's daughter, as beautiful as he was handsome, tall and athletic, at home riding horses and roping cattle.

  Bode Bonner loved his daughter more than life itself.

  Lindsay Bonner loved those years. She was content. Happy. Useful. But Bode needed more. More excitement, more adventure, more competition. He needed politics. Men needed three basic things in life: sex, food, and competition. Politics provided two out of three. So he ran for the state legislature to champion rural interests as Texas became more urban. He lost his first election as a Democrat, but he won his second election as a Republican and every election since. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

  He always yearned for higher office.

  "Texas was once an independent nation-and if Washington keeps messin' with Texas, we just might be again!"

  She suddenly snapped out of her thoughts-the Lubbock Republicans sitting on either side of her were applauding the governor and glancing suspiciously at his wife. She was late with her applause. Again. She now clapped for her husband. He basked in the applause.

  Bode Bonner had fallen in love with politics. It filled a need inside him. It fed his competitive instincts and enabled his ambition. It stole the romance from their lives. He had found something he loved more than her. It was painful enough for a woman to lose her man to another woman, always a risk when her man is in politics, but to lose her man to politics, that bordered on cruel. But seduced by politics he was. So he ran for the governorship. Texas had turned red and Republican, but Bode saw that it had also turned green, as in money from big business, that the State Capitol was no longer the seat of government, but instead a shopping mall where laws, rules, and regulations were bought and sold-and the people were sold out. But Bode Bonner had been different. He was a populist. A man of the people. He wanted to change things.