by Jay Begler
He did a mental gulp.
As the helicopter ascended from Chula’s heliport and the figures of Isabella and Chula below grew faint and then out of sight, Morales thought “What the hell am I going to do?”
Nine
•
Married to the Mob
Coming to a decision on Chula’s offer consumed Morales. He thought of nothing else. He lost interest in his job at the bank, and tended to his duties robotically. His social engagements were far and few between, but after two weeks he was no closer to a decision than the day he left the hacienda. The money was amazing, but it was a weird proposal. Morales could make love to any woman he wanted, but he couldn’t be in love with her. Tugging away from accepting the offer was Morales’ hope that he could eventually meet the right woman in New York, a woman like Rebecca, and fall in love with her. Ms. Right might be just around the corner. That option would be off the table. Then there was the irrational thought that if he married Isabella, the infinitesimally remote possibility of a relationship with Rebecca would no longer exist. While he dismissed this thought as nonsensical, he continued to factor it into his decision-making process.
Morales’ inability to reach a decision led him into a state just short of clinical depression. He drank excessively and occasionally woke up in the bedroom of a woman whose name and the circumstances of his meeting he couldn’t recall. Entering his apartment one evening, soaked to the skin from pelting rain and toxically drunk, Morales sought to comfort himself by visiting Rebecca on Facebook. He hadn’t done so for over a year. The idea lifted his spirits slightly and in his drunken-deranged state, he decided to ritualize the event. He shaved, showered and dressed well for the occasion. Still drunk, he poured himself a large glass of scotch, put it aside and then drank directly from the bottle as he prepared for his one-sided electronic rendezvous with Rebecca.
Taking a final long swig from his mostly empty bottle and then raising it as if toasting someone, he entered her name in the Facebook search engine and said with the slurred speech of a drunk, “So Rebecca, let’s see what you’re up to?” The image stunned him. She was wearing a wedding gown. As he searched further, he saw a multitude of congratulatory messages to Rebecca, and to Rebecca and Daniel Levy. There was a video of Rebecca and her husband, Daniel, lifted on chairs and being marched around a large hall for guests.
A reproduction of a prior announcement printed in the New York Times stated: “Mr. Levy is the founder and CEO of Levy Pharmaceuticals, a drug development and research company focusing primarily on pharmaceuticals for the treatment of Alzheimer’s and associated diseases. His fiancée, Rebecca Shapiro, a PHD in pharmacology, is head of research for the company. Mrs. Levy,” the article noted, “already holds several patents on promising Alzheimer’s related pharmaceuticals. Though under 30, she is recognized as one of this country’s leading experts on pharmaceuticals for Alzheimer’s disease.”
As he looked at the entries, there was one which said, “Our new Facebook pages will be “Rebecca & Daniel Levy.” When Morales attempted to gain entry, the word that came up was “blocked,” and below that was a cheery message of condolence to those unable to gain entry into the site. “We are sorry you’re blocked, nothing personal. It’s just that we limited entry to fifty of our closest friends. Cheers.”
He felt a tightness in his chest and for a moment speculated that he might be having a heart attack, but the pain abated. His emotions at that point were so jumbled that he didn’t know quite how to cope with this news. Without taking his umbrella or raincoat, Morales left his apartment and wandered through a downpour, though he was unaware that he was being soaked. He mumbled angrily to himself, “Cheers. How the fuck could they say cheers. Fucking cheers. Jesus.” After an hour entered the Tepito district, a notoriously dangerous section of Mexico City. Walking down a narrow alley and not aware of his surroundings, Morales heard footsteps behind him and turned just in time to see a baseball bat moving towards his head, which he blocked with his forearm. The burly young man prepared to swing again. Morales sprung the small sharp prongs on his ring and pushed his fist in the man’s eye. The man screamed and raised a knife, but not before Morales hit him in the temple with the ring and disabled the man. The man lay on the ground, unable to move. With rage boiling over, Morales held the bat that the man used and beat him to death, all the while screaming, “Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!” Feeling no remorse, he walked on and entered a bar only a few steps from where the man lay dead.
While the bar had an assortment of what his father might call “tough guys,” given Morales’ furious expression and the fact that he still held a bloodied bat in his hand, something he didn’t realize, they steered clear of him. He bought a bottle of Dewar’s, sat at a table by himself and half way through decided that at this point that he had nothing to live for anymore now that Rebecca was clearly out of reach. He sat stupor-like, staring into space. Then something inside him seemed to click. Morales pushed the Uber link on his iPhone and, with the bloody bat in his hand, exited the bar.
Once in his apartment, he emailed Chula and Isabella. “Dear Mr. Chula and Isabella, I would be honored to marry Isabella. Regards, Hector.” And then, caught up in his irrationality and thinking about Rebecca, he lifted a mostly empty glass of scotch, whispered with a sad tinge to his voice, “Cheers,” and passed out.
The persistent ringing of his phone brought him out of his deep alcoholic sleep. At first, Morales wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or that his phone was actually ringing. As the remnants of sleep left him, questions arose. Why was it so bright in his room? And why was his arm swollen? And was that blood on his hands? His mind still a bit fuzzy and his eyes mostly closed, he said, “Hello?”
It was his mother. Alarmed that she would call so early and not realizing that it was one PM, Morales asked, “Everything ok?”
“Everything is wonderful. Your father and I are so happy that you are going to marry Isabella. We thought at first that the hacienda would be the right place for your wedding celebration, but figured that since all of your friends and the bank’s clients are in the city, we would have it at the Bankers Club in the Historical Center. It’s a fabulous place and can accommodate about 500 people.”
Morales sat up quickly, heart beating and adrenalin pumping, but before he could ask what was going on, the sharp pain in his arm intensified when he used it to prop himself up. Morales had no idea of how he injured his arm, nor any memory of his beating a man to death with a bat.
“Mother, can I call you back?”
“Of course, but call sooner than later since I have meeting with your wedding planner. There’s so much to do and so little time.”
Cautiously, he asked, “When is the ceremony?”
“Two months from today.”
In a knee jerk reaction to the news of the impending wedding, he said, “So soon?”
“You sound like you are reluctant to go through with the wedding.”
“I’m just surprised. I suppose I should get Isabella a ring.”
“I have just the ring for Isabella. It’s an antique emerald diamond engagement solitaire ring with platinum Art Deco bridal mount. It belonged to your great grandmother. I had it appraised this morning. It’s worth $55,000.”
“Sounds fine,” he said, trying to mask his glumness and anxiety.
The voice mail on his cell phone was from Chula, whose first word, “Son,” caused Morales to panic slightly. “I hope you can come up here over the weekend. There is a great deal we need to discuss. But before you do, I have an assignment for you. Write down this password, 1937szzt44ioP. Log into my account and use this password and you will have access to all the financials relating to my cattle business. I’d like you to go through them and develop an analysis of profit margins and how we can increase these. It will be a good way for you to get your arms around the business.”
He apparently handed the phone over to Isabella because the next voice he heard was hers. He knew she was being deeply sarcas
tic when she said laughing “Darling, thank you so much for your lovely email.” He felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle when he heard her say, “I’m so happy you agreed. We’ll have a wonderful, and odd, life together. I can’t wait to see you.”
He wanted to ask Isabella when he agreed to marry her, but he was too embarrassed. Later, he found his emailed acceptance and after reading it aloud looked at himself in the mirror and said to his image, “You are such a fucking prick.”
Ten
•
Just Like Ken Lay
As Morales exited the helicopter, he saw Chula waiting for him. “Son,” Chula said, hugging him. He couldn’t get used to that word coming from anyone except his father.
“Isabella is taking care of some business and will join us in a little while. Oh, and by the way, I wired your wedding present this morning to the bank. Now you can manage securities for your own account.”
They sat in a small conference room. Morales opened his briefcase and pulled out two small files. He began rather somberly. “I’ve gone through your financials quite thoroughly, twice. Truthfully, Mr. Chula, I think my analysis is solid.
“I think it’s time for you to call me Don.”
Hesitatingly, he said, “Don, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’ve been losing millions of dollars every year. I’m so sorry.” Morales was sorry for another reason. He agreed to marry Isabella in exchange for part of her father’s business, which for all intents and purposes was insolvent.
Chula laughed. “I know. Just a little joke on my part.”
“So, the figures are not real?”
“Oh no, they are real”
“I don’t understand. Your tax returns show annual revenues of over $٢٠٠,٠٠٠,٠٠٠ and you pay taxes on about $٨٥,٠٠٠,٠٠٠ profit. Yet your financial records show a substantial loss each year for the last ten years. Forgive me for saying this, but it’s like you are throwing away money. I know you are a very intelligent man and Isabella is a genius, literally. I assume there is a reason, but as hard as I try to understand why, I can’t come up with any that makes sense.”
Chula poured himself some tea and poured some tea into Morales’ half empty glass and said, “I pay taxes Hector to hide.”
“To hide what?”
“Who I really am and what I really do.”
Morales didn’t know why he was nervous about what was coming next. Was it a premonition? Feeling a degree of anxiety, he said, “I’m sorry I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Hector, I make my money by selling illegal drugs, a great deal of drugs, billions of dollars’ worth of drugs.”
Morales did not know how to respond. It was clear from Chula’s tone and the manner in which he said these words that he was not joking. From behind he heard Isabella’s voice as she simultaneously put her hand on his shoulder, her action intended to comfort him. “I’m afraid Hector that my father is quite serious. He is the head of the Aztec Cartel, the largest seller of illegal drugs in the world.”
Morales’ next thought seemed impossible, but he blurted out, “Holy shit! You’re El Fantasma!”
“Very good. Yes. Look Hector, I know it’s a lot to absorb, so give yourself some time. My beautiful Kobe style cattle are used to transport drugs. Someday, I’ll tell you how I met El Chapo and how he forced me to work for the Cartel.”
Morales asked, “But what’s stopping me from going to the Federales? There is a $25,000,000 reward for you. Though, I suppose you’d kill me if I did that.”
“Not at all; not my future son-in-law. If you did that, however, the people close to me, Isabella, and your father, would probably go to jail. Yes, Hector, your father. Who do you think launders all the Cartel’s money?”
Morales should have been angry, but the idea that his father was part of a drug Cartel impressed him, and the esteem he held for him notched up slightly.
A man that Morales did not recognize entered the room and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Chula, Vincent is here.” Chula sighed, stood and said, “Excuse me; I need to take care of this. Isabella can tell you more.”
“Isabella, I don’t know what to say or what to do.”
“I’m so sorry Hector that my father sprung this on you. I asked him to tell you well in advance of your commitment to marry me, but he felt he wanted to do it this way. If you want to call off the wedding, I’ll understand.”
“But, being such a brilliant person with so much to offer the world, why would you want to get involved in something like this?”
“Look at me, Hector.” She took off her very dark sunglasses, revealing bulging and bloodshot eyes. “I’m beyond ugly; I’m a freak! You are my only friend, and I’m afraid that I will lose you now. It’s easy to predict what will happen. You’ll meet someone to replace Rebecca, continue to come to the ranch, but as your relationship develops with this lucky woman, your visits will become less frequent and eventually stop entirely.” Morales knew that Isabella was absolutely right.
“When I started working for my father, my only focus was the cattle business. Gradually, however, I switched over two Aztec’s drug business. When I learned that he was El Fantasma it also shocked me, but the business is fascinating and unbelievably lucrative.”
He interrupted: “Not to mention illegal.”
“Yes, yes,” she replied in a dismissive, almost impatient, tone. “And, the more I became involved in it, the more I disregarded the inherent nature of the business and viewed it as I’d view any other business. At this point, I’m functioning as Aztec’s chief operating officer. It’s a daunting challenge. We employ over 100,000 people. That makes us the second largest employer in Mexico after the army. And the people I come into contact with seem genuinely nice and don’t mind my looks.”
“But let me say it again, what you are doing is illegal and most of those people are murderers.
“Yes, and if that bothers you, then you are free to go. Hopefully, you’ll remain my friend. I would be heartbroken if you didn’t marry me. Did you know that Rebecca’s father works for the Cartel?”
He hadn’t thought of that. Panicked, he asked, “Does Rebecca know? Please don’t tell me she knows.”
“No. Her father insisted on complete secrecy about the true nature of his work.”
“Very few things shock me, but it’s hard to get my arms around the fact that your father is who he is and has carried on this charade for all these years.”
She replaced her sunglasses and sat across from him. “I’ll try to explain. When you become a drug lord, there are three things that are essential. First and foremost, you must make certain you don’t get caught. My father’s predecessors in the Cartel all had good business sense, and all got caught. El Chapo was the greatest drug lord in history. He was a pioneer in ways and was responsible for many disciplines which we still use today. He was responsible for my father becoming part of the Cartel. The problem was that law enforcement knew his and other kingpins’ identities. Despite their efforts, Mexican and American law enforcement have never connected my father with El Fantasma. The identities of the other key members of the Cartel have also remained secret. But this is no simple task. We have over three hundred people devoted to making certain that our key people will not be discovered. We spy on law enforcement and listen for chatter, much in the way the American government listens to chatter about terrorists.”
Morales interrupted. “But aren’t you concerned that someone on the inside, tempted by the reward, will secretly inform?”
“We monitor everyone who might know the identities of key players. There is also a protocol in place. We know every family member of the people in the organization. Everyone knows the rules. Inform and we will kill you and everyone in your family, mother, father, brothers, sisters, children, infants and even cousins and in-laws. Everyone that might know the identity of my father, the other directors, and members of our core group, must sign an acknowledgment that they understand the protocol and the consequences for v
iolating it. Annually, we require them to update all information on members of their family down to their second cousins and their friends. We audit their information each year and if we find inaccuracies, we punish the person for submitting the information severely. We also use undercover agents to go out into the field when we pick up chatter on a possible informant. The agents connect with the potential informant and act as law enforcement types to arrange for the disclosure. And if the informant gives information, even if he identifies the wrong person, we use the protocol. That happened only twice, and each time the informant gave the wrong information. Nevertheless, we killed everyone connected to him. It’s harsh, I know, but it works.”
The casual way she spoke about the killings surprised him and he asked, “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“It’s business, Hector, that’s all. The second most important thing is to make sure a rival cartel doesn’t have you killed.” She laughed slightly at her mistake. “That obviously needs to be number one. Given the unification of most of the cartels in Mexico, that problem no longer exists. Full unification is a work in progress. My father says that he won’t rest until there is only one cartel in Mexico, the Aztec Cartel. He mentioned that the final unification project might be a good place for you to start.”
Morales thought sarcastically, “I wonder if they have a training program.”
“Finally, we need to stay profitable. While we make a great deal of money, staying profitable has its challenges. Should you want to stay on, I’ll explain everything in greater detail.” Come to our management meeting tomorrow, just to sit in.”
“You’re what?”
“All the heads of sections are there; you’ll see. There’s a cocktail party tonight first. Please come.” With some reservation, he agreed.
About fifty men and women congregated in the large room where Morales first met Rebecca. The memory of that encounter flashed, but he refocused. This gathering didn’t seem any different from the parties his parents used to throw. Chula approached him from behind. “Are you feeling better?”
