Tequila Sunset

by Sam Hawken

  “We’ll tell him this one took a while.”

  “Careful, or my bad habits are going to wear off on you.”

  “I think they already have.”

  NINE

  AFTER BREAKFAST FLIP LINGERED AROUND the house, but his mother was always checking on him and after a while it started to get under his skin. He took a shower and put on fresh clothes and told her he was going out for a while.

  “Where are you going to go?”

  “Just out. Don’t worry, Mamá.”

  “Stay out of trouble.”

  He walked the streets of his mother’s neighborhood first, unconsciously making note of who was home and who was not. When he caught himself thinking that way, he pinched himself and forced his thoughts onto another track. He wandered far afield, down alleys marked with tags and along busy roads.

  Flip wanted to be where people were and eventually he found them. These kinds of people didn’t mind if he looked at them a little long, or if he met their gaze. And there were women. At a busy food truck he saw two young women in matching blue shirts and jeans getting lunch. They worked for a maid service. The younger one looked his way and he tried a smile. She turned her head.

  For an hour he sat at an intersection as the cars went by. He heard snatches of music out of open windows, watched drivers when they weren’t watching him, enjoyed the feeling of being somewhere things were happening. There was no standing around in the city, no endless waiting. It made him feel good to be a part of it, even if he wasn’t doing anything himself.

  The weather turned warmer as the afternoon wore on and eventually he found himself back in his mother’s neighborhood, retracing his steps to the house. There was a pick-up truck in the driveway.

  His mother was there, greeting him, when he came through the front door, hugging him as if he had only just appeared. She led him into the living room where a man Flip had never seen waited on the couch.

  The man stood up when Flip entered and offered his hand. He was tall and rangy, his skin dark. When Flip shook with him, he felt hard calluses on the man’s palms. “This is Alfredo, Felipe,” his mother explained. “He came by to see you.”

  Alfredo sat down again and Flip took the chair across from him. The man had the sleeves of his denim shirt rolled up and Flip saw his tattoos. They were blurry, as if done cheaply. Flip could not figure out how old Alfredo was. Maybe as old as his mother.

  “It’s good to meet you finally, Felipe,” Alfredo said.

  “I didn’t know anybody was interested,” Flip replied.

  “Silvia told me all about your… problem. She thought maybe I could help you out once you came home again. That is, if you’ll let me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Alfredo’s here to offer you a job, Felipe,” his mother said. “You said you needed a job for your parole.”

  “Mamá—”

  “Just listen to him, Felipe.”

  Alfredo smiled and showed nicotine-stained teeth. He clasped his hands in front of him. “I work at a warehouse. We handle groceries for local businesses. I’m the manager there. If you’re interested, I can offer you part-time work. It’s not easy work – a lot of loading and unloading trucks – but it’s honest pay. I can start you right away.”

  “They’ll let you hire a con?” Felipe asked.

  “I get a choice of people to hire. If I choose you, nobody will complain. I can’t say that about everybody out there.”

  “It’s a good job, Felipe.”

  “You want it, it’s yours,” Alfredo said. “As a favor to your mother.”

  “As a favor to my mother?” Flip asked.

  “Right.”

  Flip sat forward in his chair. “You know what I was in for?”

  “I know. It’s not a problem for me.”

  “What if I told you I stabbed someone? On the inside.”

  “Felipe!”

  Flip saw a muscle in Alfredo’s jaw working. Finally the man nodded slowly. His hands came apart and he gestured to the ceiling with them. “What can I do?” he said. “That was on the inside.”

  “How do you know I won’t stab someone again?”

  “Are you going to?”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Flip tried to read Alfredo’s eyes and failed. There was something in them that he recognized from prison: hesitation or the rudiments of fear. The man did not show it, and that was good, but he felt it.

  “Do you want the job, Felipe?”

  “Okay.”

  TEN

  MATÍAS HEARD LOPEZ APPROACHING HIS desk from behind. There was a way the man walked, an unevenness to his step that was distinctive, as if he were deliberately walking out of time. Lopez clapped him on the shoulder then and leaned in. “How’s it going, Matías?”

  Carlos Lopez was entirely average, something that Matías thought might account for his rise through the ranks. There was nothing threatening about Lopez, which might cause someone to think twice about promoting him, and nothing exceptional, which might inspire jealousy. He was a perfect blank. His step was the only thing uncommon about him. He sat across Matías’ desk from him.

  “I’m working the shooting from this morning.”

  “The Salvadoran club?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let me see if I remember: six bodies and no witnesses, right?”

  “One witness. Next to useless. I could have pulled the details out of a hundred shootings just like it. The killers arrived in a pick-up and turned the street into a bloodbath. Six dead, just like you say.”

  “No identification possible, I suppose?”

  “Of the shooters? No way.”

  “How about the victims?”

  Matías shuffled through his papers to find his notepad. “Two victims with MS-13 tattoos visible, nothing on the rest.”

  “And the coroner won’t be able to check for more ink for a week?”

  “At least. They’re piled up down there.”

  A telephone rang at another desk. It was swiftly answered. In all there were a dozen desks, all decorated with the same lamp and blotter, all equipped with identical computers. Some kept their spaces more neatly than others. Matías’ desk was scattered with documents. Every responding officer to the shooting had an individual report and every person on the scene was interviewed regardless of whether they had anything to say or not. Matías had six open cases, all multiple homicides, and the paperwork for these filled a wire tray.

  “Who do you like for the shooters?”

  “Something like this? Definitely Los Aztecas.”

  “Not La Línea?”

  “Too low-profile. Just like those,” Matías said, waving a hand at the tray. “The Sinaloa hire MS-13 muscle to hit Juárez targets and Juárez hits back. If a few more Salvadorans get caught in the crossfire, so what? The way the Juárenses figure it, MS-13 shouldn’t put its nose in. I can’t say I disagree.”

  Matías shook his head. Sinaloa cartel, Juárez cartel, Mara Salvatrucha, Los Aztecas, they were all mixed up together in a bloody mess that no one man could hope to untangle. Every man in that room, every desk, was occupied with the same questions. Every desk had its tray of bodies. Only Carlos Lopez cruised above it all, supervising the men beneath him, never touching the ground. If he weren’t so plain, he would be hateful.

  “So what do you do now?” Lopez asked.

  “I can try to match the slugs taken from the scene with previous hits, but that will take forever,” Matías said. “I could reinterview our only witness and hope she makes up something that sounds like the truth or I can put it on my pile, kick it back to the locals or the PF.”

  “That sounds like you already have the answer.”

  “I wish I didn’t. Goddamn it, Carlos!”

  Lopez blinked. “You want to hear something that will make you happier?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “The locals got a tip on your shooters
an hour ago. They passed it to the PF and they passed it to me. Now I give it to you.”

  Lopez handed over a folded piece of paper. Matías opened it. “Do they think this is legitimate?”

  “Don’t you think it’s worth your time to find out? Or you can put it on your pile, whatever you choose.”

  “Very funny.”

  Lopez rose from his seat and twisted his back until there was a loud snapping noise. He exhaled sharply. “Call them and say you’re on your way. The PF will be the tip of the spear, but they know it’s your case. You have your vest?”

  “In the trunk of my car.”

  “Make sure you wear it. Those Aztecas are crazy.”

  Lopez walked away. “Thank you, Carlos,” Matías called after him.

  “Thank me when you have your shooters.”

  Matías picked up the phone and dialed the number on the sheet of paper. It rang three times on the other end and was answered. “Matías Segura for David Muñoz,” Matías said.

  He was on hold for five minutes. When the line picked up again, Matías heard telephones ringing in the background and the hubbub of many voices talking over the noise. An old dot-matrix printer screeched away. “Muñoz.”

  “This is Matías Segura, PFM. Do you have a minute?”

  “Segura? Yes, they told me you might be calling. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask you about the tip that came in this morning, about the Salvadoran club shooting. How good do you think it is?”

  “Good enough that I’m putting a team on it. We’ll be ready to go in a few hours. Are you coming with us?”

  “I’ve been cleared to.”

  “Then come on down. Some of my boys have never seen a PFM agent on a raid before.”

  “I hope I don’t disappoint them.”

  “Wear a suit and tie.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  Matías hung up the phone. He gathered up the papers from the shooting into one stack and shoved them off to one side. He left only the slip of paper on the blotter.

  “Hey, Matías,” said Francisco at the next desk. “Did I hear right? You’re going through a door with the PF?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “When was the last time you had tactical training?”

  Matías shook his head. “I don’t remember. I’m sure it will all come back to me.”

  “Well, be careful.”

  He put the slip of paper in his pocket and stood up from his desk. “You can count on it, Paco. Answer my phone for me, will you?”

  “Buena suerte.”

  ELEVEN

  THE ASSAULT TEAM ASSEMBLED ON THE STREET two doors down from the target house after spilling out of an armored truck. Their black uniforms and armor were distinctive, their faces masked, their heads helmeted. Matías went with them, bringing up the rear. He was armored as well, though he did not look as intimidating as the others. For a moment he wondered if he should have borrowed a helmet of his own.

  Dust blew in from between houses, carried on the wind. Matías felt it grit between his teeth. He sweated underneath his vest. No air circulated in the truck. The assault team must have been sweltering.

  The target house was two stories, taller than the houses around it, with space on all four sides and a high chain-link fence squaring it in. The front gate had a combination padlock and a chain on it. The point man on the team carried a pair of large, red boltcutters.

  Matías saw a pair of black SUVs pull up to the far side of the house to block the street, and more geared-up federal police emerged. He was aware of another couple PF vehicles pulling up behind the armored truck, completing the bracket.

  All of the assault team members were armed with automatic weapons. Matías just carried his pistol. The assault team leader, Muñoz, told Matías ahead of time that he was to stay back, enter only when the team called the all-clear, and keep his head down as they made forcible entry. “I don’t need the PFM coming down on me if something happens to you,” he said.

  The point man signaled the advance and the dozen men, plus one, crept up past the face of the neighboring house. Matías looked to see if anyone watched from the windows, but he saw no one. It was the middle of the afternoon and most people would be at work. A dog barked somewhere.

  It was a matter of seconds for the bolt-cutter to do away with the lock. They passed through the gate unhindered. The windows of the target house were likewise blank, the curtains drawn. Suddenly Matías heard the throbbing of bass leaking through the walls of the place; the men inside would hear nothing even if the assault team was not moving in silence.

  The space in front of the house was covered in cracked, uneven slabs of concrete. Weeds slithered up through the openings, wherever they could find purchase. A pair of cross-shaped uprights had clothesline strung between them, though there was no laundry out.

  The assault team dipped under the line and then broke apart. The two men ahead of Matías headed right toward the corner of the house. One of them slung his weapon and produced an extensible rod that quickly opened to a length of ten feet. It had a loop on the end. The second man hooked a flash-bang grenade through the loop and then the pair of them were gone, headed to the rear of the house.

  Men piled up on opposite sides of the front door. The door, like the windows, was barred with wrought iron. One man tested the bars, found them locked. He nodded to another, who produced a set of locksmith’s tools and crouched down to work.

  Matías tucked himself in behind one of the assault team members and watched the lockpicking progress. He was still sweating, this time from his brow, and he paused a moment to wipe his face with his shirtsleeve. The bass was powerful enough to be felt through the wall he leaned against, insistently thumping away.

  He did not hear the click of the lock, but the man working the door stepped away and the entryway was unbarred. He was replaced by yet another member of the team, this one carrying a one-man battering ram made of steel pipe filled with concrete, handles welded on. Matías tensed.

  Muñoz muttered something into his radio. From behind the house came a sharp blasting sound, a flash-bang going off. At the same time the battering ram smashed against the front door and tore the twin deadbolts out of the frame. A grenade was tossed into the room beyond. Another flat explosion and then the team poured in, man over man, with Matías behind them.

  “¡Policía! ¡Al suelo!” came the shouts.

  Matías plunged through the open door into a maelstrom of noise. Electronic music blared from big speakers on the far end of a large front room. Assault team members screamed to be heard. Matías saw three shirtless young men pushed to the floor, their protests swallowed up by the throbbing bass.

  Federal police crashed through the open doorways leading from the room, returned with more young men and a pair of girls, all of them partially undressed. They were thrown to the ground. Muñoz kicked in the front of the stereo system and the music stopped abruptly. Everything was yelling and smashing as furniture was upended and loose pictures fell from the walls. Matías stood aside and let it all happen, his gun in his hand but not necessary.

  They took control of the house in less than a minute, clearing the upstairs and downstairs. In the end they had ten men and six women in custody, lying on the floor of the main room with their hands behind their backs. Assault team members shoved furniture out of the way to make room for them all.

  Muñoz vanished upstairs and returned after a short while. He signaled Matías over. “Come and see,” he said.

  Matías followed Muñoz up the stairs to a back room. It was meant to be a small bedroom, but it had been converted into an armory. He saw shotguns, automatic rifles, pistols and boxes of ammunition.

  “Three of them were armed,” Muñoz told Matías. “The rest could have gotten to this and we’d be in a fight for sure. We win today.”

  The two men returned downstairs. The prisoners’ wrists were secured with plastic zip ties. There was the noise of breaking g
lass from the kitchen as the cabinets were opened and cleared. A pair of assault team members kept watch over the prisoners, though they were not going anywhere.

  “Right here!” someone called. A member of the team entered from another door carrying a gallon plastic bag half-full of white powder. He held it up for Muñoz and the others to see. “There’s more in back.”

  Muñoz nudged one of the prisoners with his boot. “Guns and drugs, eh? You bunch know how to fuck up, don’t you? I’ll be right back.”

  Matías looked over the men and women on the floor. All of them were extensively tattooed, even the girls. He saw Indians and feathers, a full-back representation of the Aztec calendar, and another with the large numbers 21 marked on the back of his neck where no one could fail to see them. Another was less subtle, with a lower-back rocker that spelled out AZTECA. He guessed that not one of the prisoners was over twenty-three.

  He knelt down by the first man in line and poked him in the shoulder. “Hey,” he said, “you know something about a shooting this morning? Six Salvadorans dead? You know anything about that?”

  “Vete a la chingada,” the Azteca said.

  Matías went to the next. “How about you? Feel like talking?”

  “I got nothing to say.”

  “Okay,” Matías said. He stood up. “You don’t talk now, you talk later. Don’t say I didn’t try to make it easy on you.”

  Muñoz returned. “Anything?”

  “They’re going to be tough,” Matías said.

  “We’ll see how tough they are. We have a wagon coming for them.”

  “I’ll call ahead and make sure things are ready.”

  TWELVE

  THE SUN WENT DOWN OVER EL PASO AND the night came on. Cristina parked their car across from a row of houses and killed the engine. She rolled down the window and let the cooling air in. Across the street and one door down there was a party going on, with lights out on the covered porch and rap music playing. The lyrics drifted her way, all in Spanish. Cristina thought she recognized it as a track from South Park Mexican.

  “Friday night’s all right,” Robinson said.