A Touch of Greed nb-3

by Gary Ponzo

  As with most funerals, there was an awkward period at the end where the family feels the need to thank the guests for coming and Matt did most of the leg work for Mrs. Steele while she tried to maintain her composure.

  Nick, Walt, Stevie and Tommy found their way up a hill to the shade of a tall pine and greeted one another properly.

  “Good to see you, Tommy,” Walt said, letting him know the FBI is still grateful for his past assistance with rounding up terrorists on US soil.

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. “Good to be back in the States.”

  “Where’d you go?” Stevie asked.

  “Nairobi. I have a friend whose daughter runs an orphanage for AIDS babies.” Tommy shook his head. “Boy, you think things are bad here, until you go over there and see what’s going on. It’s disgusting.”

  Tommy looked over his shoulder at Matt, who was finishing off the final few good-byes. “How’s he holding up?”

  “Better than I thought,” Nick said. “But he may be keeping it all in.”

  Matt spotted the group and labored his way up the hill as if carrying a loaded backpack. As he approached, his swollen eyes became visible. He grabbed Tommy’s handshake and pulled him into a hug.

  “Thanks for coming,” Matt said.

  Tommy said nothing. He simply patted Matt on the back and gave a terse nod.

  Matt looked at Walt, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I need to get to him.”

  Walt was the consummate pro. He let Matt’s anger stew. It was all Matt had right then and Walt wasn’t about to take it away from him.

  “As long as we get this dirty bomb along the way,” Walt said.

  “This Garza, is he hard to find?” Tommy asked.

  “No,” Nick said. “We know where he is.”

  Tommy jabbed the purple toothpick into a back molar. “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, he’s in Mexico,” Walt said, making eye contact with everyone to get his message across. “So we can’t exactly barge into the country and make a scene.”

  “There’s an election to consider,” Nick finished for his boss. “So we can’t be seen taking control of the situation. It would make President Salcido look weak.”

  Tommy cringed. “What the-”

  Nick held out his hand to cut him off. “Don’t,” Nick said. “This isn’t Walt’s decision, so let’s not make this out to be something it isn’t.” He looked at Matt. “We’re still on the same team and have the same goals. It’s just a little trickier.”

  “So,” Matt said. “Where do we start?”

  “We start at the bottom,” Walt said. “Find the weak link.”

  “Won’t that take time?” Matt asked, glancing back at the casket, his mind clearly torn.

  “Maybe not.” Walt pulled a small stack of fresh hundred dollar bills from his coat pocket and handed them to Nick.

  “Is there something special about these?” Nick said, looking them over, then handing the stack to Tommy.

  Walt seemed to wait until Tommy had a chance to examine the bills.

  “Notice anything?” Walt asked.

  “They’re good,” Tommy said, taking a single bill from the pack, then holding it up to the sunlight. “I mean, they could pass as real.”

  Walt grinned. “Yes they could. In fact they did, until DEA made a cocaine bust in downtown Tucson last week. The drug dealers themselves had no idea. Even after they were booked. Do you know which smuggler made the transfer?”

  “Garza,” Nick said, finally putting it all together.

  Walt pointed a finger at him. “Bingo.” He looked at Tommy. “Any idea who made it?”

  Tommy shrugged. “Not really. If we were back home I might know a name or two. You want me to make a couple of calls?”

  Walt scratched the side of his face. “We don’t have time for that. There is another way. One of the field’s best counterfeiters is imprisoned right here in Arizona. I’m hoping he’ll help.”

  “Who?” Tommy asked.

  “Frank DeRosa.”

  Tommy waved his hand. “Naw. You’d be wasting your time.”

  “You know him?” Nick asked.

  “Not really. I know who he is though, and there’s no way Frank DeRosa is going to squeal on anyone. For any reason.”

  “Even if we offer to lessen his sentence?” Nick asked.

  Tommy looked off into the horizon, deep in thought. After a few moments he said, “Look. The only way this guy will tell you anything is if I make an appointment with him personally and discuss his release.”

  Walt made a sour lemon face. “Make an appointment? He’s in prison.”

  “You don’t know this guy,” Tommy said. “He’s more powerful in prison than most guys are on the street. I make sure he knows who’s coming and why. It’s a sign of respect. You show up with your suits and yellow legal pads and he’ll sit there stone-faced.”

  “So,” Matt said. “Can you make an appointment for this afternoon?” He turned to see workers in dirty jeans preparing to lower Jennifer Steele into the ground. He came back with both of his hands curled into fists. “Because I’m not sure I have the patience to wait much longer.”

  Tommy pulled his phone out and backed away from the group. “I’ll do it.”

  As Tommy walked off, Walt stared at a text on his cell phone. “We just got word from the operative in Mexico. That bomb is making it over the border in two days. Uranium can’t be brought in by boat, or by plane. It’s too easy to detect. So it limits Garza’s options.”

  Walt pointed to Stevie. “Get a couple of drones set up along the Arizona border and have them transmit images back home for the next forty-eight hours.”

  Nick looked over at Matt whose entire body was a tightly wound bomb just waiting to explode.

  “You okay, partner?” Nick asked.

  Matt shook his head. “No. But I’ll get there.”

  Nick looked over Matt’s shoulder to catch Julie waving to him as she was escorted from the ceremony by two FBI agents. He waved back. She blew him a kiss.

  Tommy returned with his palms open. “Mr. DeRosa will allow me a few minutes of his time this afternoon.”

  “Okay, then,” Walt said. “Let’s get on the road.”

  Matt grabbed Walt’s arm and glared at him. “You know I’m going to kill him, right?”

  Walt gently tapped Matt’s hand. “You do what you have to do.”

  Chapter 11

  The black SUV weaved cautiously between saguaro cacti and mesquite bushes along the Mexican desert. As always, Victor sat next to Garza in the back seat, staring at his phone.

  “What does that thing tell you now?” Garza asked, adjusting his sunglasses.

  “Our American friend has confirmed the presence of a spy,” Victor said. “Someone is down here working with the US government.”

  Garza frowned. “That is old news. I suspect he is holding back and rehashing the same information. He is stalling.”

  “Maybe he’s had it confirmed from a new source?” Victor said.

  Garza turned to his first lieutenant and pulled the sunglasses down to the brim of his nose. “Is that what you believe?”

  Victor appeared anxious. “I am merely offering options, Jefe. If you want I should keep my mouth shut and agree with every comment you make. . then that is what I will do.”

  Garza replaced his sunglasses and smirked. “No, Victor, do not change. I sometimes forget who I am speaking with.” He returned his attention to the desolate desert floor under the bright noon sun. “Please, continue.”

  In the distance a large, beige tent came into view. Two green Humvees sat parked beside the tent.

  “Jefe,” the driver said. “Is this them?”

  “It is them,” Garza said with certainty. “Stop the car fifty feet from the entrance.”

  The driver carefully rolled toward the tent while everyone else in the SUV kept their eyes moving along the horizon. Finally, the driver came
to a stop and shifted the vehicle into park. Two soldiers stood on either side of the entrance, their AK-47s on their shoulders.

  Garza had the driver sit still while he examined the landscape. He searched for extra tire tracks signifying the delivery of more men possibly waiting inside. There were none. Garza did not make enemies. He was simply an agent of transportation. He kept the flow of product flowing freely from one side of the border to the other. The cartels were used to an annual success rate of sixty-five percent. Garza boasted nearly a ninety-five percent success rate. And that included the necessary decoys he would employ.

  Garza nodded to Victor and his number one opened the door and approached the tent. Victor held up his hands as the two soldiers frisked him for weapons. Once they were satisfied, they motioned him inside the makeshift meeting place.

  Victor emerged a few minutes later with his right hand balled into a fist. This signaled to Garza there were no soldiers inside the tent. If he suspected something, he would’ve been scratching his shoulder. It was safe to enter.

  “Stay here and keep watch,” Garza instructed his two men in the front seat.

  As Garza approached the tent, he took off his sunglasses and placed them in his shirt pocket. He held out his arms as the soldiers frisked him, then gestured for him to enter.

  Once inside, Garza met a man wearing khaki clothes and sandals. The man was older than Garza remembered, a mop of curly hair turning gray down his sideburns.

  The man opened his arms with a genuine smile. Garza hugged the man and returned the back pat.

  “It is good to see you again, my old friend,” the man said in Spanish. “El Carnicero.”

  “Yes,” Garza returned the greeting in Spanish as well. “You look well.”

  The man pointed to a beach chair in the middle of the tent. “Please, sit.”

  Garza lowered himself into the seat and smiled at Francisco Rodriguez. One of the most powerful men among the world of cartels. The Mexican government was bringing down massive heat on the cartels and Rodriguez was their way of infiltrating the system. He was the opposition to President Salcido and if he took power, the cartels would control the country from the inside.

  Rodriguez removed a flask from a canvas bag on the floor. He poured tequila into two separate shot glasses and handed one to Garza. They raised their glasses.

  “To the future,” Rodriguez said.

  “To the future,” Garza said.

  They downed the drinks together. Rodriguez wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So how is Julio?”

  “He is very well. Thank you.”

  “Getting prepared to take over the family business?” Rodriguez said with a grin.

  Garza wanted nothing of the sort, but knew the correct response. “Of course. He is a good student.”

  “Good, good. So, tell me, how do you do it? How is it you find a way to transport goods over the border without any trouble?”

  Garza smiled. “If I told you that, then why would anyone need me?”

  Rodriguez laughed. “My friend, you will always be needed. Especially when I become president. I am here to tell you the three cartels leaders are all in debt to you. They call you, ‘El Presidente de la Frontera.’”

  Garza certainly was the president of the border, but it was good to hear the cartel leaders speak of him that way. He held up his shot glass. Rodriguez filled both glasses and they downed the tequila with a satisfying, “Ah.”

  “Antonio, once I am in office I will parcel out the territories and eliminate much of the violence. The leaders have already agreed on their specific regions and have arranged for a treaty amongst themselves. Once the violence subsides, the civilians will appreciate the calm and the protests will stop. This is my platform and I will perform my duty with honor.”

  Rodriguez sounded more and more like a politician now and Garza could see the transformation in front of his eyes. A marijuana farmer turned drug runner turned ruler of the cartels. Then a familiar smile came across his face.

  “When I am president,” Rodriguez said, “we will both rule this country together.”

  “Pardon me, Francisco, but I already rule this country. And I do not need voters to keep me in power.”

  “This is very true.” There was a gleam in Rodriguez’s eyes. He held up the flask with a questioning look.

  “No, thank you.”

  In the distance, the sound of helicopter blades emerged from the silence of the desert. Outside the tent, Rodriguez’s soldiers were shouting, “Federales, Federales.”

  Rodriguez looked at Garza. “Something I should know?”

  “I have brought you a present,” Garza said. “Something for you to offer our friends. They will know our relationship is sound and not question your authority.”

  Rodriguez stepped outside and saw the helicopter heading their way, low to the ground, nose down. Below the Federale chopper, following its path, was a white panel truck. It looked like a medium-sized moving van, spitting dirt as it moved along the desert floor.

  As the helicopter advanced, Rodriguez’s soldiers were ready to fire their weapons. When Garza saw this, he yelled, “No. They are with me.”

  Rodriguez’s men all turned toward Garza with confusion on their faces. There was a unique trust between Rodriguez and Garza, so the presidential hopeful told his men to lower their weapons.

  Garza pointed to the truck as it slowed to a stop in front of the tent, then signaled the pilot of the helicopter. A Mexican policeman waved back to Garza from the pilot’s chair, then lifted up the chopper and turned toward the direction he came.

  Garza had the impulse to put on his sunglasses and smile as Rodriguez looked at him with complete astonishment. It was one thing to own the police, but quite another to have them actually escorting your illegal substances for you. Such a brash display of power.

  Garza greeted the driver of the truck as he moved to the rear of the vehicle and pushed up the sliding door until it was completely open. Once the contents were exposed, Rodriguez shook his head in amazement. The entire wagon was filled with wooden crates.

  Rodriguez followed Garza who hopped into the back of the truck. Garza grabbed a hammer from the floor and pried loose a panel of wood from the top of a crate, then another, until the entire lid was gone. Garza reached down and spread apart the bubble wrapping until a layer of assault rifles was exposed.

  “There are three hundred fifty of them,” Garza said. “Plus ten thousand rounds of ammo.”

  Rodriguez’s expression told Garza all he needed to know. He gazed at the bulk of weaponry with absolute intoxication, as if he were imagining the amount of clout he would acquire with such a gift and it pleased him to a childlike smile.

  “You will let them know where this came from,” Garza said. “It will solidify our bond and they will show you the support you need for election.”

  “Yes,” Rodriguez replied, still appearing dazzled by the display of power Garza had produced. He peeled his attention from the box of toys to take in his friend. “I certainly will,” he said, glancing at the Federale helicopter in the distance.

  Garza held out his hand. Rodriguez slapped it away and pulled Garza into a bear hug.

  “There is so much backstabbing in this country,” Rodriguez whispered in Garza’s ear. “It is good to know there is still loyalty among old friends.”

  “Always,” Garza said. “Always.”

  Florence State Prison was only a couple of hours from Payson so Tommy had no problem making his 1:00 PM appointment. The facility was over a hundred years old and looked and smelled the part.

  Tommy sat in the interview room waiting for the prisoner to arrive. He’d never been offered the interview room to visit a prisoner before, but he’d never visited someone of Frank DeRosa’s stature. A simple wooden table sat in the middle of the room with names and initials carved into the wood. Tommy thought he might have seen Jesse James’s name etched in there somewhere. On the table was a pair of old-fashioned microphones.
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  The jail cell doors opened and an older man with a full head of white hair strolled in without any cuffs or chains. He wore a freshly ironed orange jumpsuit and had freshly manicured nails. Tommy held out his hand to greet the man and smelled expensive Chardonnay on his breath.

  Frank DeRosa didn’t lift his hand to return the gesture; he simply sat down across from Tommy and stared vacantly.

  Tommy sat as well. “Mr. DeRosa, my name is Tommy Bracco. I used to work for Mr. Capelli back in Baltimore.” Tommy looked up and made the sign of the cross over his torso. “May he rest in peace.”

  DeRosa didn’t move a muscle.

  Tommy felt like he was being timed, so he quickened his pitch before he’d lost the guy’s attention altogether.

  “Mr. DeRosa,” Tommy said, “my cousin is with the FBI. He chases terrorists. It’s the only thing he does. Anyway, he’s trying to get to a particular terrorist down in Mexico who’s about to transport a nuclear device into the United States.”

  So far the only thing DeRosa found interesting was a fly which flew around his head.

  “Anyway, I was hoping you could help us out. I told my cousin you might be able to inspect a phony bill and tell us where we might find the printer of such a thing. In return, he would have you released within forty-eight hours.” Tommy showed the palms of his hands. “Mr. DeRosa, if this phony bill was created by a friend of ours, then I wouldn’t expect you to ever roll over on such a person. But if he were just an independent contractor, someone we’re not close with, well, you might be interested in the offer.”

  DeRosa remained still. He stared at Tommy as if waiting for the punch line of a joke. After a moment he found the fly again and watched it land on the table between them.