by Mark Greaney
“For the whole enchilada?” Jerry smiled. “Today I’m running a special. Everything for the low, low price of only fifteen grand a beaner.”
Court’s eyes rose at the price and the slur. “There are four in the family.”
“Sixty g’s, then.”
“How ’bout a volume discount?”
Jerry laughed, clapped once. Then he cocked his head. After a few seconds he nodded thoughtfully. Court had given him a threatening stare; Court had no idea if it would have any value.
“What the hell? Fifty k.”
Ten grand worth of stare. Not bad. Court wondered if brandishing his pistol would have shaved off another five large. “We can come up with that. How does this work?”
“I need everybody’s photo IDs. I’ll take that info and generate everything you need.”
Court reached into the backpack and retrieved the stack of identity cards for the Gamboa family. Court remembered Ernesto’s driver’s license was still in there. He fished around and pulled it out, stuck it in his pocket with a slight grimace.
He handed the cards to Pfleger. “How long?”
Pfleger looked them over, and Court watched him carefully. He knew it was likely the American would realize he was dealing with members of one of the families targeted at the rally in Puerto Vallarta. But if he did recognize the Gamboa surname, he showed no evidence of it. “Overnight. I can have these to you at lunch tomorrow. Mexican lunch, that is. Two p.m. Same time, same place.”
“That’ll work.”
“You got a phone? I may need to call you for more info.”
Gentry was reluctant. “What info?”
“Dude, trust me, there is always something missing on IDs that I don’t want to just fudge. These people will be stuck with these identities in the States. They have to have all the t’s crossed and the i’s dotted.”
Court pulled out his new mobile. Read the number out to Jerry Pfleger.
“Okay,” Jerry said. “I need a down payment. Fifty percent.”
Court pulled the bag of money from his backpack and pulled out twenty-five thousand dollars. Handed it over to the young American, who counted it out himself. He jammed it into his pocket.
Two boys came into the bathroom, walked immediately up to the urinals without regarding the two Americans.
The men separated with a nod. Court left first, and Jerry went back to the mirror to work on his blackhead.
Court almost panicked when Laura was not in the food court upon his return. His head moved on a swivel, and he scanned the lunchtime crowd and began pushing his way back to the escalator.
He grabbed his phone and began to call her, but he saw a tiny girl with a short bob of black hair in line at the cash register of a men’s store. She waved to him and smiled a little. When she came out, she said, “I got us both some new clothes. I hope you like them.”
He wanted to chastise her, but he realized instantly that she had used her time wisely. They would need new clothes. Little Laura had done well, and he told her so.
She smiled at him, and then together they walked sleepily towards the exit of the mall.
The hotel Gentry picked out was on Donceles Street, just a block north of the National Cathedral in el Centro Histórico, the historic city-center neighborhood. The building was small and recessed from the main street by a guarded gate; there was a tiny hidden parking lot for his stolen motorcycle. The desk clerk took cash and gave them keys to a room on the third floor with two twin beds; Court had asked for a view of the street and was satisfied with his sight line out the window.
As exhausted as she was, Laura was thrilled by the location of the hotel, as it stood directly across the street from la Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, a narrow but ornate 250-year-old baroque church and former girls’ school. As soon as they were in their room, she told Court she wanted to go across the street and pray. He rolled his eyes and started to follow her, but she suggested he stay in the room and rest. He grabbed the pistol he’d just pulled from his pants, stuck it right back into his waistband, covered it with his shirt, and followed her out the door.
“We stick together, Laura.”
“Good. Will you pray with me?”
Gentry shrugged as they reached the staircase. “You pray for us both. I’ll stand watch.”
They crossed the busy road and entered the church; Court sat in a pew while Laura knelt next to him and bowed her head. Court kept his tired eyes open and darting in all directions, though there were only a few other people in the sanctuary and they were clearly more interested in their salvation than deleting Court or the girl with him.
The altar was high and gilded; the walls on either side of the sanctuary were similarly gilded and adorned by statues. Soft music played through speakers, and the cool air was dim, illuminated by natural light coming through the stained glass and reflecting off the golden walls and ornamentation.
Court began drifting off to sleep. Only when Laura climbed back up to the pew next to him did his eyes relight.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the crucifix on the altar. She spoke softly. “You are not a believer, are you?”
“I . . . I wasn’t raised in the Church. I don’t know how it all works.”
She looked up at him and smiled; they sat with their shoulders touching. “Let me show you.”
“Thanks, but not today. I am really tired.”
“Faith will give you the energy you need.”
“Sleep will give me the energy I need.”
She seemed disappointed. “Some other time, maybe?”
“Sure.”
Laura then walked forward to an iron stand of votive candles and placed money in the offering box. She began lighting candles, one by one, saying a prayer for each. After the third Court realized they were for the dead of her family.
He stood with her, his back to the wall, watching the front door and the choir loft and the other worshippers. She had a lot of candles to light.
On the way back to the hotel Laura noticed a small bodega, and she and Court agreed they should get some provisions so that they would not have to risk going back out again before the meeting the next day. They bought bread and juice and water and tortas, and they made it back to the room just before five.
Laura immediately lay facedown on one of the twin beds and closed her eyes.
Court grabbed the bag of clothes from the men’s store and stepped into the bathroom. A long shower washed off days of sweat and grime. Bloodred swirls in the bottom of the bathtub gave him pause: he wondered just which of his many victims’ splatter had made it to his skin and just how long the blood had been on him. He shampooed his long hair and more blood ran from it, along with bits of grass and pebbles and broken glass and gunpowder residue. The debris collected in the water around his feet. He watched it swirl or settle, depending on what it was.
To him it was a reminder, a journal of the past few days. The rally in Puerto Vallarta. The hacienda. The armored car. The ride on the motorcycle.
Looking at it all just made him more exhausted than ever.
He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and looked into the bag.
Pressed brown khakis, a cream-colored linen shirt, a black belt with a square silver buckle, black socks and black tennis shoes, one half size too large, but close enough. He dressed quickly, the fresh clothes felt amazing on his clean body. Though he knew he could sleep for a day, he still felt like a new man.
He stepped back into the bedroom, lay down on his bed, placed the Beretta on his chest, and looked across at Laura. She had rolled over on her back; her eyes were closed, her hands rested on her stomach, and her small breasts rose and fell with her breath.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.
He forced himself to turn his head, to look away from her. He rolled onto his side, and in minutes he fell asleep.
THIRTY-FIVE
Two white Yukon XL Denalis pulled up in front of th
e exclusive restaurant in the Zapopan district of Guadalajara just before eight p.m. The drivers remained behind the wheels of the armored vehicles while four men stepped into the road, began looking over the cars on the street, the people passing by. The men wore black Italian-cut business suits, their hands were empty, they were quick and efficient with their movements, but they were not impolite as they moved through the foot traffic to the front door of the restaurant. There they stood, back to the wall, and they all unbuttoned their coats. Their eyes scanned the street in all directions.
Three Guadalajara police squad cars double-parked on the street. Their flashing lights reflected off the glass for a block in each direction. A pair of patrolmen stepped out of each vehicle and began directing traffic to continue on up the street. No one would be allowed to park anywhere near the front of the restaurant.
Four more men climbed out of the gleaming white SUVs and moved directly through the bronze double doors of the restaurant. These men wore black suits as well, carried handheld radios and empty black nylon bags. The manager and the maître d’ met the men in the lobby in front of the bar, they spoke a moment, and then the six men broke into two teams.
The maître d’ and two Black Suits approached each candlelit table and spoke softly to the diners. Cell phones were confiscated; the men were asked to stand and open their coats, and they were frisked as politely as the brusque act can possibly be accomplished. Some of the customers understood what was going on—most did not. Soon all the phones of all the patrons were in the black nylon bags. An announcement was made to the dining room by the maître d’: eat, drink, enjoy yourself, and your meals will all be taken care of by a customer who will be entering shortly. There were gasps, a few claps, a few more stolen glances at wristwatches.
It would be a long night.
Meanwhile, three men checked the prepared banquet room, looked under the table, careful not to disturb the linen or the place settings as they did so. They scanned for listening devices and discussed arrangements with the servers. Then they entered the kitchen; the manager led the way as the staff lined up and underwent a quick frisking, even the women in the back of the house were patted down. Then the pantry was searched, the walk-in cooler, the dry storage areas, and even the freezer.
Everyone in the kitchen knew this routine.
Six more Black Suits arrived in another white Yukon XL Denali; two men headed straight through the dining room, and the patrons wondered if one of them was their benefactor for the evening. But they headed into the kitchen and stepped out the back door. They opened their coats and took up watch in the alley. The remaining four stepped into the dining room from the cool evening, and they moved with military precision into the four corners of the room. Again, coats opened and eyes scanned all in front of them but did not fix on any one thing.
One of the first men in the door spoke into his radio.
Five minutes later three more white SUVs stopped in front of the restaurant. A thick group of men in identical black suits entered; no one would be able to count the number with the speed and tightness of the mass, but there were certainly a dozen individuals. Their clothing and hairstyles, even their trim beards and mustaches, everything was virtually identical. They passed through the dining room; the patrons at their tables strained their necks and gawked; a woman tipped her wineglass as she leaned back to try and pick out the celebrity.
Was he a famous bullfighter? Was he the singer performing at the Auditorio Telmex tonight?
No one knew who it was, because no one could tell one man from the next. In seconds the mass moved into a back banquet room, the door was shut, and two suits stood at the door facing the restaurant.
The main dining room murmured and speculated. Several said, “Los Trajes Negros,” but none of the men in the black suits standing around nodded or answered back.
Soon the tables began ordering more wine, and the servers poured liberal glassfuls. Champagne corks were popped, and the staid dining room turned into a celebration.
Daniel de la Rocha sat at the end of the long banquet table, sipped his scotch, and gazed at the tea-light candle on the starched white tablecloth. He picked the soft middle out of a slice of crusty French bread and wadded it into a tight ball before popping it into his mouth. The table was set for twelve, but now only five sat with him. The other men paced around the room talking into mobile phones or radios; two were in the corner huddled over a laptop they’d set up on a serving table.
Emilio Lopez Lopez, DLR’s personal bodyguard and the leader of his protection forces, stood against the wall not five feet behind his boss.
A waiter in white offered DLR a menu, but he waved it away, asked the server to instruct the chef to prepare him something light. The waiter disappeared, and de la Rocha’s attention returned to the candle.
It had not been a good day. Elena Gamboa had survived the attack on the hacienda in the mountains near Tequila and had escaped. Nineteen marines, federales, Jalisco state police, and Tequila municipal cops, all under the control of Spider Cepeda, were dead, a couple of campesinos as well, and many more were wounded.
Calvo had worked his magic, the news reported that the men died heroically fighting the remaining Madrigal Cartel assassins who had attacked the rally in Puerto Vallarta, but this type of mess did not go away cleanly or quickly or cheaply. There would be blowback from Constantino Madrigal, from the government in Mexico City, from a meddlesome foreign press that Calvo could not so easily influence.
More men sat down now, and de la Rocha lightened a bit. He was with his brothers; they were together, and they would get through this chingado mess. The Gamboas would be found, and they would die, and the next wave of “heroes” working for the GOPES would not be so quick to come after him.
They talked about old times, talked about their days together in the army. Daniel was one of the boys now, and he enjoyed moments like this. He liked getting away from his properties, getting out into someplace different, even if it did require two dozen bodyguards and hours of coordination from the local police.
De la Rocha stood up from his chair. The others seated stood with him, but he motioned for them to sit back down. He stepped over to the corner nicho, knelt down at a Santa Muerte placed there just for him, and prayed alone.
When finished, he poured a double scotch for la virgen and left it there in the nicho beside her, then returned to his table.
Nestor Calvo had been pacing with his phone, but he left the dining room for a moment, returned minutes later, and then sat in his seat on Daniel’s right. He leaned into the ear of his patrón.
“I’ve been speaking all afternoon to a man from the American embassy. We use him from time to time, for this and that.”
Daniel’s plate came. Filet of sole, not too much butter. A mango salsa. Asparagus. He nodded, lifted his fork, and the waiter went away with a sigh of relief. Daniel did not look up as he responded to Nestor. “This and that? Time to time? Okay. You aren’t telling me much. What about this gringo?”
“He helps Spider get papers for his men to get into the United States if there is someone up there we need to go after.”
Daniel nodded, bit into the hot fish. His face showed no expression.
Calvo continued. “He . . . I am speaking of the norteamericano, he called one of my men this afternoon, says he has valuable information, but he will only give it to you directly. I called him back and told him to go to hell. He flew straight in from the Distrito just now to speak to us. Called me from the airport. I finally persuaded him to tell me what he knows, and I had a man pick him up and bring him here.”
“So he didn’t go to hell; he came to me.”
Nestor shrugged. “You are going to want to hear this.”
“Has he been searched?”
“At the airport and again, just now, in the bathroom. Head to toe.”
Now de la Rocha shrugged and nodded, he did not look up from his plate as he ate. “Bring him in.”
Nestor nodded acro
ss the banquet room to a man positioned at the door. He stepped out, and seconds later he returned with Jerry Pfleger.
The American was disheveled, no doubt from the rough feeling up that he’d just endured in the bathroom. Wearing his rumpled white short-sleeved shirt and his thin black tie, he looked completely slovenly in the beautiful dining room amidst the well-coifed men with expensive suits. The guard ushered him to the far end of the table to de la Rocha’s left. Daniel stood and shook Jerry’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, Your Excellency.” Jerry said it with a wide smile.
Daniel sighed. Gringos. “Don’t call me that. Have a seat.” Both men sat back down. De la Rocha looked to the waiter standing against the wall behind him. “Angelo, bring my blanco American friend some vino blanco.”
A glass of white wine was poured and Jerry took a long gulp. Daniel had returned to his sole. Between bites he asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m really happy you weren’t hurt the other day.”
“Me, too.”
“On the news . . . the man who tried to kill you on your yacht. His wife was at the rally in Puerto Vallarta.”
De la Rocha stopped eating. He looked up at Jerry.
Pfleger continued. “Mister Calvo said you might be interested to know where they are?”
“I might be interested, yes.”
“An American came to me today in Mexico City. He wants me to procure forged U.S. visas for three women and one boy.”
De la Rocha just looked at the gringo, “And who are these mojados ?” Mojados was the local translation for “wetback,” or someone who swims the Rio Grande to get into the United States.
“Luz Rosario Gamboa Fuentes, Elena Maria Gamboa Gonzalez, Laura Maria Gamboa Corrales, and Diego Gamboa Fuentes.”
“Spider!” de la Rocha shouted out, startling Pfleger and making him sit up in his chair. Javier “Spider” Cepeda had been at the computer in the corner, but he spun around and darted over to his patrón. Daniel had Jerry repeat himself to the leader of his sicarios.
