“Who’s the American guarura with the shaved head?” Méndez asked.
“His name is Krystak. Chief of security for the Blakes.”
The bodyguard hovered behind the executives. His eyes swept the room.
“They must feed him meat.”
“With a shovel. He’s a North American mastodon, look at him.”
A willowy blonde in a green dress put a binder in front of Blake; he took her arm and whispered to her, her hair cascading close to his face. When she walked to a lectern to check the microphones, his gaze followed her.
Ayala clutched his chest as if going into cardiac arrest.
“Híjole, híjole, now that’s a first-class assistant. Like a young Sharon Stone. I bet she gives him plenty of…assistance. And there’s a reason I say that word in English.”
“Shame on you, Fulgencio. You’ve got a daughter her age.”
“You’re right. I’m a beast. I don’t know how I live with myself.”
Méndez glanced at him. Ayala stared penitently at the floor. After a moment, he made sidelong eye contact. A grin filled his baggy face.
Lights dimmed. Music began. The logo of the Blake Acquisitions Group—an image resembling the offspring of a supernova and the starship Enterprise—appeared on the screen. A video described the Blake Group and the Mexican conglomerate and their combined holdings: banks, hotels, railroads, real estate, insurance companies. Charts and statistics attested to the might of the firms and the colossal benefits their deal would bestow on investors, shareholders, Mexico, the United States, and the human race. The screen spewed words: dynamic, visionary, diversified, high-impact, growth-friendly, profit-intensive, forward-leaning.
Méndez studied Perry Blake, whose face flickered in the light of the screen. Blake was in his forties and had a strapping, long-limbed physique. His upswept hair stood off his head like a rooster’s crest—a boyish touch. Méndez went through his mental file. Blake had attended a Big Ten university and played tennis, lacrosse, and golf. He had belonged to a fraternity. He had shown fierce drive in academics, athletics, and whatever else he put his mind to. He was known for wearing out his employees with round-the-clock work binges. When the lights went on, Méndez saw impatience in the face and body language. Not a man who liked to sit and listen. Méndez recalled the photos and video of Blake’s father, his shambling frame and profane tirades. The father and son were said to have a close but difficult relationship.
A spokesman named Ross took the lectern. He was silver-haired and pigeon-chested and came off like an anchorman who didn’t know or care that the antiquated style of locution he favored had spawned a satirical genre. Swiveling, squaring his shoulders, and raising his hands high, he led the audience in a round of applause for the presentation.
I hadn’t realized it was possible to clap pompously, Méndez thought.
Ross opened the floor to the reporters. The blond assistant walked the aisle with a microphone. A reporter asked for comment on the article by Méndez. The reporter suggested that federal investigations could be an obstacle to the merger. Ayala poked Méndez in the ribs.
Ross frowned. He referred the reporter to a statement that had been released earlier. The Blake Group denied any wrongdoing and had always cooperated with the federal government.
“We are not going to dignify this fake news, these debunked allegations, with further comment,” he said. “The Blake Group is in discussions with legal counsel about a decisive, proactive response to this outrageous attack.”
Ayala wiggled all ten fingers at Méndez as if he were making a spooky gesture at a child.
“Good thing your bank account is empty,” he whispered. “They are going to trample you like Godzilla.”
More reporters asked about Méndez’s story, one addressing Blake directly. Ross insisted there would be no further discussion of the topic.
“You spoiled the party, Leo,” Ayala whispered. “The plan was for the executives to speak, but they will wrap it up fast. Don’t strain yourself raising your hand. That hot güerita isn’t coming near you with the microphone.”
Blake jerked his head at the spokesman. Blake rose, the others following. Reporters shouted questions at the departing group.
Méndez had an idea.
“Do you want to interview me, Fulgencio?”
“Of course!”
“A gentleman’s agreement, then. You have access to these Americans through Monroy. Tell them I am here and I want a comment, face to face. If you can convince them it’s their opportunity to respond to me in person, scold me for my transgressions, they might do it.”
Ayala savored the proposition like a wine taster.
He’s figuring out the best way to play both sides, Méndez thought.
Ayala slapped Méndez’s knee.
“Follow me, my valiant soldier. When I give the sign, you make an apparition like the Virgin of Guadalupe.”
The TV reporter darted out of his chair and slalomed through the crowd, his footwork surprisingly agile.
Ayala did not disappoint. Half an hour later, Méndez sat in a hastily arranged conference room down the hall. In basketball terms, he had shown up for a one-on-one while the other side brought the whole team. Ross glared across the table, anchorman as enforcer. He was flanked by the blonde in the green dress and two public relations men for Monroy Enterprises. A bespectacled, sharp-faced American occupied a chair at the far end. A lawyer.
As far as Méndez was concerned, the most interesting person in the room was the spectator. Krystak, the security chief, had propped himself against the wall by the door.
About the size of Porthos, Méndez thought. Less stomach, but similar girth in the back and shoulders, similar outsize hands. In color and consistency, the shaven head resembled granite. The nose was prominent and fleshy. Krystak wore a black suit and an earpiece with a wire. He acted as if he had a two-part directive: (1) memorize this pesky Mexican’s face; (2) put a scare into him while you do it.
Méndez jotted notes as Ross spoke, the bass voice reverberating with the undertone of a Texas accent. Méndez had gone way too far, Ross said. His article was irresponsible, unprofessional, and inaccurate.
“Which part is inaccurate?”
“The so-called Mexican intelligence document is a fake.”
“Excuse me, we have made public the classified report. Verified by impeccable sources. The only person who says fake is Senator Ruiz Caballero, a possible target of investigations and friend of the Blakes. If not for politics, the senator would be in prison long ago. I have personal knowledge of this aspect.”
“That’s the whole problem. It’s personal for you. A Mexican political vendetta. A crazy extremist crusade.”
“I will report your criticisms as promised. But I have questions.”
Ross shook his head, his blunt polished features tight with indignation. “It doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to write that crap and come in here and ask questions. You wanted our response. I’m giving it to you.”
“I would like to interview Mr. Perry Blake.”
Everyone glared except the blonde, who looked sad and distracted.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Ross said.
“Very well. Is there anything you wish to add?”
“You’d better start writing a retraction. Your story’s falling apart. There’s no proof of money laundering and there never has been.”
Méndez scribbled dutifully. He recalled Isabel’s hint.
“What about bribery?” he asked. “What about obstruction of justice?”
“Listen, pal,” Ross boomed, reddening. “I don’t know what you consider yourself—a journalist, an activist, a freelance investigator? You and your, um, outlet are bound by the same rules and ethics as everyone else. I speak as a professional person with decades of broadcast experience. You can’t write whatever you want and get away with it. This isn’t Tijuana.”
Méndez frowned. He glanced at one of the Mexicans, a reedy young man with
glossy black hair, then back at Ross. Méndez let the silence lengthen. Ross swallowed.
Méndez smiled coldly.
“I know where I am,” he said. “And who I am dealing with.”
The corporate contingent bustled out. No one told Méndez to leave, so he stayed in the room to go over his notes. He reviewed the e-mails and messages, mostly interview requests, that had inundated his phone. He called his office. Finally, he called his wife.
“You’ve caused a ruckus, Leo,” she said.
“I hope you say that as a good thing.”
“I do. My wolf strikes again. What now?”
“We’ll see. Perhaps it will lead somewhere, catch fire. Perhaps not. Regardless, I intend to be on a plane tomorrow night.”
“About time. School starts on Monday.”
“I know, Estela.”
“Juan has his last game of the summer on Saturday.”
“I promised I would be there and I will. The days of sacrificing family for work are over.”
Méndez checked his watch. He had agreed to do the interview at Ayala’s studio in an hour.
As he hurried down a hall toward the elevator bank, an elevator door opened. Perry Blake emerged. He was deep in conversation with Ross, who hustled to keep up with the younger man’s strides. They were accompanied by the bodyguard, the blonde, and the lawyer. The group was about fifty feet away. Krystak spotted Méndez first and stepped in front of Blake. Ross looked flustered. The group muttered among themselves as Méndez closed the distance. The bodyguard glanced over his shoulder.
Blake snapped, “No, I want to.”
Krystak moved aside. Méndez found himself face to face with Blake.
“Mr. Blake,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Leobardo Méndez.”
The executive had alert blue eyes. Up close, his features had thickened compared to younger photos Méndez had seen. The hairline had receded, enlarging the rectangle of the forehead beneath the crest of light brown hair. Blake’s groomed eyebrows seemed perpetually raised, as if he were reacting to big news. He cocked his head with an expression of grudging interest—This is the loser who ruined my day? A jaw muscle bulged. He was chewing gum.
Méndez stood with his hand out. After letting a second go by, the executive shook it. His sudden, seemingly genuine smile caught Méndez off guard, a display of the charisma Isabel had described.
“Leo.”
“I would be honored if we could speak, Mr. Blake.”
“You’re being used, Leo. You’re attacking a project that has massive historic economic benefit to your country. To your own people.”
The voice was crisp. The tone was chiding but controlled, as if he knew Méndez would come to his senses if he just listened.
“With respect, Mr. Blake, your history is not a guarantee of progress for Mexico.”
“Lookit, you think you’re sticking it to the Man. But you’re being used, Leo, and you know it.”
Blake’s stare bored into him. The chiseled jaw worked the gum. Méndez was aware of Krystak breathing like a mastiff on a leash.
“An interesting analysis,” Méndez said. “I am at your disposal to speak.”
“I’m glad.” Blake cracked another shiny smile, looking down at Méndez in a way that accentuated the height difference. “But I’d rather talk to the boss than the errand boy. By the way, are you packing right now?”
It took Méndez a moment to remember the meaning of the slang term, which he had heard American police officers use. And to digest the fact that Blake had asked a strange and aggressive question with the charming smile still in place.
“Not in this moment.” Trying to match the nonchalance, Méndez flubbed the preposition. “Why?”
“Just curious.” Blake spoke with exaggerated care, as if concerned Méndez wouldn’t follow. “I understand you were in law enforcement.”
“I was, yes.”
“Interesting. You don’t meet reporters with that kind of background. They’re usually all bullshit, no action. Not exactly tough.”
“For better or worst, Mr. Blake, I am from a tough place.”
“You are indeed.” The smile disappeared. “Have a good one, Leo.”
Blake walked away. His phalanx followed. Méndez pulled out his notebook to record Blake’s words verbatim. Blake had asserted that Méndez was being used. A good quote, and Blake’s best defense. Méndez knew that some of the political interests the Secretary represented were nefarious. The encounter with Blake had been unsettling: his contained intensity, the hovering security man, the scared blonde. And, of course, the offhand question about whether Méndez was carrying a gun.
After the TV interview with Ayala and a bite at a Japanese restaurant, Méndez returned to his hotel. The story had hit major media websites. U.S. officials confirmed the gist of his column. Articles revisited the Blakes’ history of alleged links to money laundering and to the Ruiz Caballero clan.
He turned on the television. On the Spanish-language network, Ayala gave Méndez screen time, though the report put too much emphasis on his past at the Diogenes Group, showing irrelevant footage of cadavers and raids. A Mexican corporate spokesman described Méndez as an agitator.
Before going to bed, he glanced at his e-mails. There was one from Fred Weinstein in Los Angeles.
Leo:
Great story, compañero. What a coup. Congrats.
This might interest you. A colleague in New York called. Immigration/labor lawyer. I don’t know him, but he knows I work with you. He’s got a tip related to the Blake Group about the janitorial staff at their headquarters getting fired. Twenty illegal immigrants. I think it would be worth talking to him. In person.
The e-mail ended with contact information for a legal-aid clinic in Spanish Harlem.
It was Wednesday night. Méndez had a flight booked for the next evening. His plan was to devote Thursday to writing a follow-up story. He didn’t want to waste time on an opportunistic lawyer chasing headlines.
However, Méndez respected Fred’s judgment. He would check out the tip, make a trip uptown. He would still have time to finish his work and catch the flight to San Diego. His son would be happy to see him on the sideline of the soccer game.
Chapter 7
So that’s our guy, huh? The local bookie.”
“Pernambuco.”
“He’s named for a state?”
“A nickname. He’s really from Ceará, the state next door.”
“Like he’s from Oklahoma, but they call him Tex.”
“Like that.”
“How long do we wait, Facundo?”
“He knows we’re here. Let him finish the lunch rush.”
Pescatore and Facundo Hyman Bassat watched the street from a Formica table in an open-walled lanchonete. The eatery smelled like coconut and burned toast. It occupied a corner across from an industrial compound and the entrance to a favela called Jardim do Fogo (Garden of Fire) on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro.
Pernambuco did business on the sidewalk by the factory. He sat, regally, in a folding chair at a folding table. On the weather-beaten wall behind him rose a mural of a ninja, a masked crouching figure holding a scimitar. Beneath the ninja, a cluster of bettors allowed glimpses of Pernambuco: cannonball head, red shirt and shorts, thick calves. His clients wore green industrial coveralls, or white button-down shirts with name tags, or the unofficial favela uniform of flip-flops and cutoffs.
“Business is booming,” Pescatore said, chewing a cheese-flavored roll.
“The jogo do bicho is an institution,” Facundo said. “There are three thousand spots like this in Rio. They’re called pontos.”
The jogo do bicho—the animal game—was an illegal lottery. It sounded to Pescatore like the old numbers game in Chicago that had died out in the 1970s. In the Brazilian version, pictures of animals on lottery slips represented numbers and were related to dreams and superstitions. The game earned billions and employed thousands. The gambling bosses, or bicheiros, were mobst
ers involved in shootings and scandals. Facundo had once done security work for a legitimate company owned by a bicheiro. They had become friends.
“If Pernambuco is a sergeant, my friend is a general.”
“A bona fide mafioso, huh?”
“Yes and no.” Facundo wiped his mustache with the back of a hairy hand. “He’s a patron of the Samba schools, the ones that perform in Carnaval. Once he invited me to Carnaval—the VIP section in the Sambadrome. The bicheiros are chummy with politicians, celebrities, billionaires, soccer stars. And why not? The game runs like clockwork. Winners always collect. The bicheiros pay good wages and benefits. If Pernambuco gets arrested, they handle the legal fees. If he dies, they take care of his family.”
It was Thursday. When Pescatore arrived the day before, Facundo had just identified the Brazilian survivor of the Tecate massacre: Tayane Pires. With the help of a source in the Rio state police, the cell phone number obtained from Chiclet had led to her family in the Jardim do Fogo favela. Facundo’s friend the gambling boss had directed Pernambuco to find her.
Facundo finished his melon. He put money on the table and got up, adjusting the gun in his belt beneath the Hawaiian-style shirt.
“Good thing we have an intermediary,” he rasped. “We can’t just go strolling into Jardim do Fogo like a couple of schmendricks.”
Like his boss, Pescatore wore a loose short-sleeved shirt with the tails out over his pistol. He followed Facundo across the street. Facundo knew Brazil, having worked for a long time at the triple border of Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay. He spoke Portuguese. With his jaunty manner and rumpled, swarthy look, he fit in.
Pernambuco’s ink-stained fingers counted cash into the hands of an elderly black woman in knee-length cutoffs. She patted his unshaven cheek.
“Keep dreaming, Pernambuco,” she said.
“I have good dreams,” the bookie said. “My dreams make money.”
Although they had only spoken on the phone, Pernambuco and Facundo greeted each other like long-lost friends. The bookie had a gap-toothed, slit-eyed smile. His gaze rose skyward as he mentioned “the Chief” and “our mutual friend.” Like Facundo, he was in his sixties. A fringe of gray hair encircled his sun-reddened dome. A crucifix on a ropelike chain hung over his chest. He closed a flat wood box containing money and betting slips and tucked it under his flabby left arm. He told a shirtless young man leaning on the wall—a lookout or runner—to keep an eye on the ponto. The narrow-waisted, bushy-haired guy appeared to be taking a vertical nap.
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