by Sam Hawken
“Emilio Esperanza isn’t going to his capo to put a green light on an El Paso cop. Even he wouldn’t be that stupid. You’ve got me thinking Freddie’s going to be an orphan by the time he’s eleven.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”
Cristina cleared Esperanza’s record from her computer screen. She didn’t want to look at his face anymore. It was bad enough that she was still thinking about it and the way he looked when the judge announced his bail. He knew right then he was going to walk, and if the inclination struck him, he could take one step across the border and just disappear into Juárez. Los Aztecas would take care of him; he was their family.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Cristina said.
“I’ll go with you.”
“All this paperwork’s going to be here tomorrow.”
“Then it can wait. I’ll walk you to your car, make sure nobody tries to take you out.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
“Don’t mention it.”
THREE
MATÍAS HAD NEVER BEEN INSIDE CARLOS Lopez’s office before. He had come to the door a few times and he’d glimpsed it from his desk, but he had never set foot across the threshold. It was an alien feeling, being in there, and he wanted to go.
The blinds were half-drawn and the office was dim. Lopez had a broad desk and his chairs were all upholstered with black leather. There was a couch. A neat stack of reports stood on one side of his blotter, an arrangement of pens on the other. In many ways it was exactly what Matías might have expected: orderly, clean and utterly ordinary.
The door was closed so he did not hear Lopez’s steps approaching. Suddenly it was opened and Lopez came in with another man Matías had never met. The man wore a suit that made Matías’ seem cheap and if he carried a weapon it wasn’t obvious. His hair was flat against his scalp and had a sheen to it. Matías got to his feet.
“Matías Segura, this is Hector Romero,” Lopez said. “He’s from the Attorney General’s office. Up special from Mexico City.”
“Mucho gusto,” Matías said and he offered Romero his hand. The man’s shake was surprisingly firm and his hands weren’t soft. Matías wondered what Hector Romero was before he became a lawyer.
“Please, Sr. Romero, have a seat,” Lopez said. “Can I offer you something to drink? I have Scotch whisky.”
“That would be fine,” Romero replied. He took the chair next to Matías and crossed his legs. Matías saw that he had very shiny black wingtip shoes without a trace of dust on them. He resisted looking at his own shoes.
“Matías? Will you join us?”
“Sure.”
Lopez poured three glasses and gave Romero his first. “Salud,” he said.
Matías thought the Scotch tasted like rubbing alcohol. If he had a drink, he preferred beer. Maybe that made him less refined. Romero seemed to like his.
“Sr. Romero is here because of the incident that occurred last night. He flew up right away at the specific request of the Attorney General,” Lopez said. “They are very concerned in Mexico City.”
“We’re concerned in Ciudad Juárez, too,” Matías joked, but Romero didn’t smile.
“I understand your wife was with you at the time.”
“She was.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yes. In shock, but all right.”
Romero considered this with his fingertips on his chin. He tapped his lips, and then said, “I am here not because this is an unusual happening in Juárez, but because it is so common. For a time we were losing officers every week. But now they have come after you, a prominent member of the PFM.”
“I’m not that prominent,” Matías said. “I’m just a man doing his job, like everyone else here.”
“You are part of the joint American and Mexican operation against Los Aztecas,” Romero said. “A very important part. Our concern at the PGR is that Los Aztecas have found out your vital role in all of this and have conspired to rid themselves of you.”
“Every policeman in Juárez is a target.”
“But not every policeman is an agent with the PFM with connections across the border. How many people know of your position?”
Matías thought for a moment. “A few dozen. We’ll call it fifty people on both sides of the border. You know about me in Mexico City.”
“And a leak could have come from anywhere.”
“Are you saying I’ve been sold out by someone on the inside?” Matías asked.
“There has never been a police unit assembled in Mexico that hasn’t succumbed to corruption or co-option by the cartels,” Romero said. “That means the locals, the state police, the PF, the PFM… anyone. And I don’t know how it is in the United States, but their security can be suspect.”
Matías shook his head. “I don’t see someone on the American side giving my name to the Aztecas. No.”
“Then you admit it must have happened here.”
A sense of melancholy settled over Matías, and he looked away from Romero toward the windows. In the hours after the attack he had almost managed to convince himself that it had been nothing more than a random assault perpetrated by one of the armed factions in the city. These things happened all the time and for no reason that could be fathomed. Sometimes Matías thought they killed just because they could.
If Matías was the target, then a pall of suspicion fell on everyone, even the men in this office. He did not like the sensation of suspecting the whole world, of having to watch what he did and said every moment of every day. But of course that was what he had been doing anyway. Who was he trying to fool?
“The Aztecas have marked you,” Romero said. “What do they call it? A ‘green light.’ You’re now directly in their sights.”
“What do you suggest I do about that?” Matías asked.
“One thing that has been recommended is removing you from your position in the American thing. That was certainly what caught the Aztecas’ attention in the first place.”
“It could have been anything,” Matías protested. “I’ve been working inquiries involving Los Aztecas for two years now. I’ve made cases against them. I’ve testified in court.”
“But never have they openly tried to kill you in a public place,” Romero said. “That is the difference.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“We could rearrange your duties.”
“What do you mean, ‘rearrange’ my duties? So you are removing me!”
“No, no, no,” Lopez said. “It’s only something that’s been proposed. People high up are concerned.”
“I’m concerned. It’s me they were shooting at,” Matías said.
“You won’t be reassigned,” Romero said.
“Good, because that would be a foolish thing to do. It would send a message that we can be swayed by violence. That can’t be allowed.”
“I agree completely,” Romero said flatly.
Matías blinked. “You do?”
“Yes. But now we must tread carefully. Someone passed on information about you, and we have to know who that is. My office has opened an official inquiry into the matter. We’ll find the one who talked.”
“When you do,” Matías said, “I want to thank them personally for all that they’ve done.”
“I’ll see to it that you get that chance.”
FOUR
THE FINAL TRUCK WAS UNLOADED AND THE work gloves came off. Back support belts were stripped off. Men made for their lockers and the time clock. Flip went with them.
He was slow to put together his things and slower still to leave the building. What came next, he wanted nothing to do with, but he was bound to it. Flip felt the expectations smothering him.
At first he thought he’d see Emilio or one of the others – Nasario, maybe – waiting outside the fence ready to tail the truck, but there was no one around. Flip stopped at Alfredo’s pick-up and leaned against the dented side, staring at his feet. It was coming.
/> Alfredo came along after a little while, carrying his black plastic lunch pail. He put it in the bed of the truck. “Ready?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Flip waited until they were on the road before he asked. He wanted it to seem natural, but he did not like the sound of his own voice. Clearing his throat helped. “Hey, Alfredo, why don’t we stop somewhere on the way back? Get a couple of beers.”
“Beers? I thought guys on parole couldn’t go to bars.”
Flip tried a smile. Alfredo wasn’t even looking. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, I’m not talking about getting loaded. Just a couple of beers before you drop me off.”
Alfredo looked straight ahead and for a moment Flip was afraid he would say no and the whole thing would go straight into the garbage. Finally he shrugged and said, “Sure, why not? Where do you want to stop?”
“There’s a place on Stanton. Rafa’s Bar. I saw it the other day when I was with Graciela. Seems like an okay spot.”
“I don’t know it. But I’ll find it.”
They drove and Flip found himself clutching the vinyl armrest. He felt like he was sweating all over. His teeth ground and he forced them apart. Street passed street, and every mile they went he felt his tension surge.
Eventually Alfredo turned on Stanton and they found the bar: a little brick-faced place just a few doors down from El Pasito Restaurante. Alfredo parked by the curb. In one window red neon letters advertised BEER and WINE. In the other, RAFA’S BAR. Both windows were heavily barred.
Inside it was dark and Flip saw nothing but black until his eyes adjusted. The place was not large, with a scattering of tables, a few booths and a short bar. Taps for Corona and Dos Equis stood up beside Budweiser and Bud Light. There were at least six different types of tequila behind the bar.
Flip did not see José at first, tucked into one of the booths alone with a half-finished beer in front of him, but he heard him call his name. “Over here, Flip! Hey, come and sit down.”
Flip went to José but Alfredo did not follow right away. Suddenly Flip was afraid Alfredo would rather sit at the bar and how that might change things. He touched Alfredo on the arm. “Come on,” he said. “He’s one of my friends.”
Alfredo went into the booth first and Flip second, so that he was bracketed between them. José was dressed in a denim shirt and had a gold chain with a crucifix dangling from the open collar. He looked like a workingman and Flip wondered if that was somehow his way of putting Alfredo at ease. Alfredo did not look at ease.
“I’m José,” José introduced himself. He stuck out his hand for Alfredo to shake. They did.
“Alfredo.”
“Oh, so you’re Alfredo. Flip’s told me all about you. You’re Flip’s boss, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Let me buy you something to drink. How about Corona? You like Corona?”
“Corona’s fine,” Alfredo said.
José hollered the order and then relaxed into his seat. Flip was uncomfortable, but he did not know if it was because of the cheap cushions or because he did not want to be there. Alfredo was still.
“How is Flip working out?” José asked Alfredo. “Doing good work?”
“Yes. He works hard.”
“I’ll bet. Flip is solid. That’s why I want him doing things for me.”
Alfredo looked sharply at José then, as if taking his measure for the first time. “Are you a carpenter?”
“Me? No. I’m a businessman.”
“Then how is Flip supposed to work for you?”
“I have things that need doing, Flip can do them.”
Alfredo glanced back at Flip. “What kinds of things?”
“Like I said: things that need doing.”
Alfredo put his hand down flat on the table and turned on José. “You’re some kind of hoodlum, aren’t you? You think just because Flip was in prison that he’s going to take up with your type?”
“Haven’t you heard? Flip’s already part of the family.”
“Flip? What’s he talking about?”
A waiter brought Alfredo his beer, but it went ignored. José put a bill on the table and the waiter swept it up. Flip wished for a beer just so he could have something in his hands, something he could look at. He did not want to meet Alfredo’s glare.
“José… he’s tight with some people I knew back in Coffield,” Flip said.
“‘Some people’? Gang members!”
“Hey, man, relax,” José said.
“Don’t you tell me to relax! I’ve spent my life staying away from people like you. And now you’re trying to pull in Flip.”
“Actually I wanted to talk about how you could make some extra money.”
“Screw your extra money. Flip, move over. We’re getting out of here.”
Flip let Alfredo push him from the booth. He looked to José and held up his hands in surrender. What else could he do? He couldn’t hold Alfredo down. José just shook his head.
“You’re making a mistake, man,” José called after Alfredo. “It’s good money.”
“Vete a la chingada,” Alfredo said and he caught Flip by the arm. “Let’s go.”
Flip allowed himself to be led out through the front door into dazzling sunlight that left him blind. By the time they reached the truck again he could see Alfredo climbing behind the wheel, slamming the door, but he didn’t get in.
“In the truck, Flip!”
He looked back toward the bar, but José did not emerge.
“Get in the truck!”
Flip took the passenger seat, still watching to see if José would pursue them. Alfredo put the truck in gear and wrenched the wheel so that they pulled an illegal u-turn in the middle of the street. Then he stomped the accelerator.
“What a bunch of bullshit,” Alfredo said. “I thought we were going to get a drink and be friendly, but you had one of your gangster friends waiting for us! ‘Make some extra money.’ Who the hell does he think he is?”
“I’m sorry,” Flip said.
“Your mother told me you were a good boy, Flip! That all that mess you got into wasn’t your fault. Now you’re out, you have a chance to do things right, and who do you fall in with? More criminals!”
“It’s not like that.”
“How is it, then? Explain to me how you just happened to run across a matón like that. It doesn’t happen by accident. You have to want to walk on the right side of the law.”
Flip still couldn’t look at Alfredo. He stared out the window instead. “Inside the gang did me favors. I owe them.”
“They’re in prison, Flip. You’re in the real world. Everybody has choices.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Do what I do,” Alfredo said, “and tell them to fuck off.”
“It’s not so easy.”
“Have you tried it?”
Flip had nothing to say to that. They were close to home now and Alfredo was driving too fast. Anger came off the man like heat. He gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles were white.
Alfredo brought him to the front of his mother’s house and pulled over. Flip felt Alfredo’s eyes drilling into the side of his head. “I’m not going to tell your mother about this, Flip, but I want you to know that things are going to be different between us. You betrayed my trust. It’s going to take some work to earn it back.”
“So you’re not going to fire me, either?”
“No. You can stay on.”
“Thanks,” Flip said and he risked a look in Alfredo’s direction. Alfredo’s face was stone.
“Just tell me you’re going to fly right from now on. If you won’t do it for yourself, you can at least do it for your mother.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“That better be good enough.”
He left Flip on the curb and drove away fast. Flip came up the walk slowly and opened the front door as quietly as he could, but his mother still heard him. She came from the
kitchen, chased by the smell of spicy meat. “Felipe, you’re late!”
“Only a few minutes, Mamá.”
“When you’re late, I wonder if there’s been an accident.”
“No accident. Alfredo and me, we just stopped for a drink.”
“It’s good that you two are getting along. We’re having early dinner tonight, so no running off.”
Flip went to his room. The shakes were coming more often and now he had them again. He barely got the door closed before he began trembling all over and he sat down hard on the bed.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
Graciela. All at once the shivering stopped. Flip held the phone tightly, the way he’d hold her tightly. “Hi,” he said. “I’m glad you called.”
“I was just finishing up. I wanted to know if you wanted to do something.”
“I don’t know. My mother has dinner on the stove and she wants me to eat with her.”
“I understand. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe. I really want to see you.”
“How badly do you want to see me?” Graciela asked and he heard her teasing him.
“You know.”
“Are you all right, Flip? You sound a little funny.”
Flip kicked his shoes off and lay back on the bed. His back was hurting, he realized, though he hadn’t felt it before. Whether it was from work or worry, he didn’t know. “It’s… I just… I had some trouble with my boss today.”
“Oh, no.”
He weighed how much to tell her, though he wanted to share everything. Nothing would give him more relief, he knew it. Then he said, “He found out about José and me. He wasn’t too happy about it.”
“Is he going to fire you? Because that would be bad for your parole.”
“No, he’s not going to fire me. He just doesn’t understand it’s for life, you know? I made a promise on my blood to stick with the family and now it’s all messed up. I got to do for José, but…”
Graciela was quiet. Then she said, “You got to do what’s right, too, Flip.”
“That’s what he said.”
“I know about Aztecas,” Graciela said. “I been around them all my life. My brother was an Azteca before he got killed in that car crash. I’m an Azteca girl. But I don’t let them run my life. I got my own thing.”
