by Sam Hawken
Flip exited onto the narrow sidewalk that mounted the overpass. No trains were going by, so the tracks were bare and rusting except where they were worn smooth from the passage of metal wheels. They were out in the open. José would not kill him here.
José joined him. He put his hand on Flip’s shoulder. “Take a look,” he said, and he pointed.
Flip followed José’s finger. On the far side of the tracks there was a fenced-in compound and a big warehouse that could have been the oversized twin of the one where he worked. There were a dozen loading docks and most of them were full, with more trucks parked in the open yard waiting for their turn. The name of the warehousing company was spray-painted in huge letters on the wall of the structure, but the sun had almost blasted them away.
“It’s a shipping depot,” José explained. “Food suppliers from all around Juárez bring their stuff here to get loaded onto trucks. Those trucks go into the United States. Now, take a look at those trucks there. You see them?”
“Yeah, I see them,” Flip said.
“Recognize the logo?”
Flip did recognize the logo. It was one he’d seen many times before on trucks stopping at the warehouse to unload. Not all the trucks down there had the design, but there were several and they stood out because they were red with bright orange letters. Flip had the inkling of an idea.
“Productos Frescos de Granja,” José said. “I know the man who tells those trucks where to go, what to pick up, what to drop off. He’s a good friend. He likes money. But don’t we all, right?”
“Right.”
“The thing is, Flip, some of those trucks go to your work. You get what I’m saying?”
“No, I don’t,” Flip said.
“¡No seas estúpido! Think about it!”
“You got something on those trucks?”
“Not yet, but it can be arranged. Only those trucks got to be unloaded somewhere. You following me?”
Flip looked at José. “Nobody’s going to let you unload that stuff at my work.”
José drew Flip close. “Your boys don’t have to do the unloading. We do it. The truck just has to have someplace to sit for a few hours. That’s where your mamá’s boyfriend comes in. The truck shows up, he sets it aside where no one touches it. We wait until closing time and then we take what belongs to us.”
“What if the truck doesn’t make it through?”
“That’s a risk we got to take.”
“I don’t know. You heard what Alfredo said: he’s not interested in taking your money.”
“Then you have to change his mind. You know how to do that, don’t you, Flip?”
“I can’t put a gun to his head.”
José let Flip go and smiled. “I don’t think you have to go so far. But you let him know that if he doesn’t come through for us then I will send somebody to put a gun to his fucking head and then he won’t be so goddamned smart! I put a lot of thought into this, Flip. We got people lined up in Juárez ready to make deliveries.”
Flip watched as a truck inched away from its loading dock and headed for the open gates of the depot’s compound. He saw the place had security and even from this distance he could tell they were armed. In Juárez even food had to be defended with a gun.
“I need to know you’re down for the cause, Flip. You wanted to know when I was going to throw you some action? This is it. Are you gonna do what you need to do?”
“Yeah,” Flip said and he nodded. “I can do it, José.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear! Come on, let’s go get something to eat.”
They got back in the car and José got them moving again. Flip caught a glimpse of the depot as they came down off the overpass, but then it was gone. José turned down a nameless street, following some internal map of the city that only he knew. Flip was lost already, and now he was only more lost.
“José,” Flip said.
“What?”
“Why are you trusting me with all of this?”
“What?”
“I said, why—”
“I heard what you said.” José turned down the radio. “I just don’t know why you’re asking, that’s all.”
“Because this is big time. I’m just some guy, you know? I’ve been inside for four years, I don’t know nothing about shipping stuff across the border. I know how to cut wood and make cabinets. I lift boxes for a living.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“You really don’t know?”
“For serious, José, I got no idea.”
“Holy shit, Flip, I thought you knew.”
Flip felt his face reddening and he looked out the windshield. They were passing through a densely packed neighborhood of paint-peeling apartments and little storefronts. It could have been a street in Segundo Barrio.
José laughed. “I guess old Enrique didn’t tell you everything,” he said. “But let me lay some knowledge down on you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“The Indians in Coffield are the true blood, Flip. That’s where it all got started. Enrique, he’s one of the Originals.”
“Yeah, I know that.”
“Then you got to know that Enrique’s word is like gold in Chuco Town. He lays his hand on somebody, that somebody’s going to have a lot of juice when they get out.”
“I don’t have any juice,” Flip said.
“But you ain’t just some cherry, neither. You earned your huaraches inside and that means something on the street. When Enrique talked to me, he said you were reliable and smart and you know how to keep yourself clean. I need all those things, Flip. I’m surrounded by idiotas like Emilio who do stupid shit and fuck up. I’m thinking about my place in the world, what I got to do to move up.”
“You’re already on top, José.”
“There’s always room for improvement, Flip. Always. And if I’m gonna break through, it’s gonna be because I picked the right people to make it happen.”
“I didn’t know Enrique thought I was so good,” Flip said.
“He don’t say that about just anybody, and I should know better than anyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Enrique Garcia’s my father-in-law,” José said. “And when he talks, I listen.”
EIGHT
THE PARK WAS BUSY TODAY, WITH MORE THAN the usual number of children milling around the monkey bars and climbers, and playing on the swings. It took a half an hour before a bench cleared for Cristina to sit, but when she did she had a good view of the playground and of Freddie.
He was doing all right today, moving from cluster to cluster, never settling, but not disrupting the other children’s games. Freddie did better with children much smaller than himself because he could convince them to play his simple games, though even they were turned off when the games turned strange.
There had been trouble at school. When he was away from his computer and the demands of the day were on him, Freddie’s temper could become a problem. No warnings would come before he was in an inconsolable state, throwing things and kicking school staff and saying things he never said to Cristina. They told her that he’d been screaming the word fuck when they had to put him in the quiet room. It was so unlike the Freddie of home that Cristina could not put the two images together.
Cristina went to regular meetings at the school where a psychiatrist saw him once a month. This time they recommended a medication change. They said the medicine might make Freddie sleepy, but that it would regulate his mood.
Freddie had been on a parade of drugs since the beginning. Some worked well and others seemed to have no effect at all. Cristina was not afraid of the new medicine, but only of what came next if the medicine didn’t work. When that happened, she fell back on questions. What did I do wrong? How can I make it better? She did not like the medication meetings.
He was playing with a little boy about half his size, chasing around the monkey bars in erratic loops with the boy beh
ind him. The sun was out and he was in a short-sleeved shirt that exposed his skinny arms. He wore new pants because he’d torn a hole in his last new pair after wearing them one time.
After a while Cristina felt safe enough to take her eyes off Freddie and scan the street that ran alongside the park. A woman walked her dog with a plastic bag in her hand. A car passed. She did not see who she was looking for.
A half hour passed and Freddie was still doing well. He’d fallen back into the pattern of playing by himself, imagining an elevator. The other children ignored him. Cristina did not have to hear him making the noises; she could imagine them.
Flip came from the opposite direction she had expected and she jumped a little despite herself. “Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” Cristina said. “Sit down.”
They sat on the bench together but didn’t look at each other. Flip kept an eye out one way, while Cristina watched over the other. After a few minutes had gone by, Cristina was assured that no one was watching them. Even so, they could not be together for very long.
“You said you had something important,” Cristina said.
“I do. I think maybe it’s just what you were hoping for.”
Flip told her about his trip into Juárez and the things he’d seen. He was meticulous in the details, which was something Cristina liked about him. Though he could not tell her exactly where the shipping depot was, he gave her enough hints that someone might recognize it if they knew Juárez well enough. Maybe McPeek. Maybe Matías Segura.
He finished by telling her about Enrique Garcia and his relation to José. “I didn’t know he was even married,” he said.
“I didn’t, either. But it accounts for some things,” Cristina said. She fished in her back pocket for a slender notebook and a pen and passed these to Flip. “I want you to write down the names of everything you remember, starting with that grocery company. How did you get back into the States?”
“José took care of it. He knew someone at the bridge.”
“Of course he did,” Cristina said. “Tell me: did he ever mention somebody named Julio Guerra to you?”
“Who?”
“Did he say if he was going to bring you back to Juárez again?”
“No, but I don’t think so. He needs me here, putting pressure on Alfredo. Listen, I don’t want to do anything to Alfredo; he’s good for my mother.”
“We’ll figure something out, but you have to stay on José’s good side. That might mean doing things that you don’t want to do. Until we can pull you out and put you under protective custody—”
“Wait a minute,” Flip said, “what are you talking about, ‘protective custody’?”
“Well, eventually you’re going to have to testify to what you’ve seen and heard, Flip. That means making statements in open court.”
“I never agreed to nothing like that!”
Cristina glanced back toward the monkey bars. Freddie was near the top, clambering arm over arm in pursuit of another child. He was smiling. She forced herself to look back to Flip. “I don’t know what to tell you, Flip. There are people involved now that have pay grades a lot higher than me and Bob. They’re going to want you to testify against the Aztecas.”
Flip pushed the notebook back at Cristina. He hadn’t written a word. “You tell them I won’t do it.”
“Flip, you don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t understand: I do this without nobody knowing my name, or I don’t do it at all. I’m not going to put my mother or Graciela or Alfredo in danger because you need somebody to talk in court. If you don’t like it, I’ll walk away right now.”
His eyes were steely and black. Cristina stared back at him. “I could tell your PO you’ve been in Mexico. He’d violate you back to Coffield.”
“You won’t do that.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because you need me.”
Cristina couldn’t argue with him. She offered the notebook again. “Okay,” she said. “Just write it all down.”
NINE
“THERE THEY ARE,” ROBINSON SAID.
Cristina looked. She saw Flip and Alfredo Rodriguez leaving the warehouse and walking down to the older man’s truck. Neither of them looked up the street where Robinson sat behind the wheel of the unmarked police unit they’d learned to call their second home. Robinson started the engine.
“They’re going to come right in front of us,” Cristina said.
“Just act inconspicuous.”
The truck pulled out onto the street and moved toward them. Neither Flip nor Rodriguez looked their way as they drove past. Robinson made a u-turn in the street behind them and fell in three or four car-lengths back, driving slowly. When they stopped for a signal, Robinson simply coasted up. Cristina thought he was good at this.
Robinson and Cristina trailed the truck all the way back to the South Side, turned on Flip’s street and kept a careful distance as Flip was dropped off. Cristina watched Flip walk to the house without glancing back and then they were on their way again, pursuing Rodriguez’s truck to the end of the block and around the corner and beyond.
“Where does he live again?” Cristina asked.
“Not far. About fifteen minutes, tops.”
“When we stop him, you want me to make the first move?”
“Maybe you should let me. He’s a working-class kind of guy. I figure he’ll open up faster to another fella.”
“I’ll follow your lead, then.”
They drove ten minutes, always keeping their distance, though Rodriguez hadn’t seemed to notice their tail. Eventually Rodriguez came to an apartment building and turned into the lot. Robinson followed and parked a few spaces down. They got out of the car.
Robinson caught Rodriguez on the steps going up and flashed his badge. “Detective Robinson, El Paso Police Department,” Robinson said. “This is Detective Salas. Can I get a word with you, Mr. Rodriguez?”
“What? How do you know my name?”
“Can we talk inside?”
Rodriguez looked from Robinson to Cristina and back again. “Sure. What’s this all about?”
“We’ll talk inside.”
Rodriguez led them to a second-floor apartment and let them in. It was dark inside until Rodriguez put on the lights and then it was yellow and underlit. The place smelled faintly of Pine-Sol. “Come in,” Rodriguez said.
Cristina was the last through the door and she closed it behind her. Rodriguez stood in the center of the living room with his arms at his sides, his confusion warring with the need to be polite. Cristina could see uncertainty in his eyes.
“Am I in trouble?” Rodriguez said. “Because I don’t think I’ve done anything.”
“No, you haven’t done anything,” Robinson replied. “Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat? Mind if we sit down?”
“Go ahead.”
Robinson sat on the couch with Rodriguez and Cristina took a chair. Now Rodriguez couldn’t look at both of them without turning his head, and so he fixed his attention on Robinson. He licked his upper lip.
They would start with the easy questions. Robinson took out his notebook even though he didn’t need it and made a show of flipping the pages. “Mr. Rodriguez,” he said, “are you familiar with a young man by the name of Felipe Morales?”
Cristina saw Rodriguez’s lip twitch at the mention of Flip’s name and the man’s eyes went immediately dark. “Yeah, I know him,” Rodriguez said. “He’s the son of my girlfriend, Silvia Morales.”
“Mr. Morales works for you, doesn’t he?”
“He does. Listen, if he—”
“Hold up a minute, Mr. Rodriguez. Let me ask the questions for right now.”
“Okay.”
“Mr. Rodriguez, you’re aware that Mr. Morales is a convicted felon, are you not?”
“Yes. He was in prison until a little while ago.”
“Do you know what he was in for?”
“I don’t know the details.
”
“That’s okay, it doesn’t matter. But did you know that while he was in prison he joined a gang called Barrio Azteca?”
Cristina saw an eyebrow rise for just an instant. Rodriguez hadn’t known.
“I knew he was in a gang. I didn’t know he was an Azteca.”
“Well, he was. He is. Gang membership in Barrio Azteca is for life.”
“I’ve never been involved with any gangs.”
“I know, Mr. Rodriguez, don’t worry. Now, I have to ask you: has Mr. Morales or anyone else approached you about doing something for the gang? Anything at all. A little favor?”
Rodriguez glanced at Cristina. “No,” he said.
“I think maybe you’re lying, Mr. Rodriguez.”
“I’m not lying. Nobody told me anything.”
“What if I said that I knew for a fact that you were approached by a man by the name of José Martinez? That he offered you money to do a favor for him?”
Rodriguez made fists and shifted his position on the couch. He was only half-turned to Robinson now. Cristina had seen the same body language a hundred times in the interview room.
“Mr. Rodriguez?”
“Okay, someone came to me and offered me money. I don’t know what for. And I didn’t ask! I don’t want anything to do with any gangs.”
“But you didn’t fire Morales,” Cristina said.
“No, I didn’t fire him. I hired him because of Silvia. She would want to know why I fired him and I couldn’t tell her the truth: that her son is still a crook.”
“Mr. Rodriguez, we have a pretty good idea what José Martinez wants with you,” Robinson said. “And we know you’re a solid citizen. That’s why we’re here. We need to ask you for something.”
“Like what?”
“We need you to reach out to Morales,” Cristina said. “Tell him that you’ve changed your mind about earning a little extra cash. He’ll put you in touch with José Martinez and Martinez will ask you to do what he wants you to do.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because we want to put Martinez away,” Robinson said. “We can do it without your help, but it would be a whole lot easier if we could get your cooperation.”
