by Sam Hawken
“I know.”
“I don’t have nothing to say to you.”
“I got something I need to say to you.”
“Say it out here, then. I don’t want Silvia to hear.”
Flip moved out onto the front step and to his credit Alfredo did not retreat. There may have been the slightest of twitches in the man’s cheek, but he did not show fear. When Flip looked into his eyes, he found only anger. Flip did not blame him.
“You want me to meet with your boss again?” Alfredo asked.
“No. You don’t have to see him again.”
“Then what?”
Flip gave Alfredo the offer just as José told him to. When he got to the payment, Alfredo made a face as if he was going to spit in Flip’s eye. He didn’t, and when Flip was done he was very quiet. “So?” Flip asked.
“When is this going to happen?”
“I don’t know. Soon.”
“Then you don’t need to talk to me anymore.”
“I guess not.”
“You still going to work?”
“For now.”
“Until you can make better money dealing drugs,” Alfredo said.
Flip dropped his gaze. “I’ll tell Mamá you’re here.”
“Thank you,” Alfredo said, and it sounded like a curse.
SEVEN
MATÍAS WAITED IN THE HALLWAY WITH Galvan while Sosa did his work. It seemed they were always together, the three of them, in the damp hallway outside the interview rooms, and always under the same circumstances. Someday, Matías thought, he would have to invite them for lunch. Anything to get them out in the clean daylight, away from the smell of concrete, urine and blood.
This was not a place for small talk, so Matías and Galvan stood silently, each staring at the door to the first interview room, willing it open. Matías hoped he would not have to send in Galvan at all, that Sosa would be able to apply the pressure he needed to make things happen.
A few minutes later, the door opened and Sosa came out. He was sweating heavily and there were large circles of dark wetness under his arms. He patted his forehead with his tie. When the door fell shut behind him, he said, “It’s done.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Matías said.
He went in. Víctor Barrios was stripped to the waist and his heavily tattooed chest was blotched with purplish, fresh bruises. The man sagged in his chair and might have been dead except for a slow, barely visible rise and fall of his shoulders. Víctor didn’t even react when the door closed again.
Matías had no notebooks this time, no files. None of the things with which he would make theater for the entrevistado. He had lost track of the number of men he had broken in here, or had broken for him. The number of confessions must have topped a hundred. Matías could have played his role tonight, but he didn’t have the patience for it.
“Wake up,” he said. “I know you’re not unconscious.”
Víctor stirred. He cracked an eye and regarded Matías suspiciously. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Your life,” Matías said. “I’m going to have you killed tonight.”
The man opened both eyes now and a visible shudder passed through his body, though the shackles that held him to the table kept him from falling from his chair. “You wouldn’t,” he said.
Matías stood across from Víctor. The odor of urine hit him again and he realized there was a pool of it coming from underneath the table, starting at Víctor’s feet. He wrinkled his nose and tried to breathe through it. “The record of your arrest has already been destroyed,” Matías said. “No one knows you’re here except myself and two other officers. The guards won’t remember you after a couple of hours. It will be as if you never existed.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“That’s not important. What is important is you cooperating with me in every way you can. If I’m satisfied, then you live. If not, then you disappear. One more body on the pile in Juárez. Except I’ll do one better than you Aztecas: I’ll let you keep your arms and legs on. The head will have to go.”
“I don’t know how I can help you. The other one, he wouldn’t answer anything. I asked him why and he kept on…”
“You think you’re being treated badly,” Matías said.
Víctor kept his silence. At least he had learned that much.
“Tell me now why you have been meeting with Gonzalo Flores.”
“Gonzalo Flores?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know him,” Matías said. “If you lie to me—”
“No! I know him. He’s the manager of a shipping depot. He deals with fresh produce trucks.”
“Fresh produce trucks headed where?”
“To the United States.”
“And what does Julio Guerra want with them?”
Víctor shrank into his chair.
Matías stepped forward and slammed his hand on the table. “What does Julio Guerra want with them?”
“It’s not Guerra! It’s an American. José Martinez.”
“I’m not interested in him, I’m interested in Guerra!”
“Guerra’s trading drugs for guns with José Martinez!”
“Drugs from where?”
“I’ll tell you exactly where! I’ll tell you anything you want to know!”
Matías eased back from the table and let his voice relax. “You’re going to do better than that. You’re going to take police to the places where the drugs are stored and point them out. You’re going to tell us when those drugs are going to be shipped through Gonzalo Flores’ depot. And you’re going to be happy about doing it.”
“Please…”
“Spare me. I had some of you Azteca cabrones try to kill me and my wife. If you think I’m going to sit back and take that kind of treatment, you’re out of your mind.”
“I had nothing to do with that. I don’t even know who you are!”
“And you’re not going to find out! If you hear my name, it’s because I whispered it to you before blowing your goddamned brains out.”
Víctor began to cry, great tears rolling down his face. His hair was mussed, standing straight up in places, and his body was streaked with perspiration. Matías thought the puddle of piss grew larger.
“Shut up! Shut up or I’ll kill you right here, right now!” Matías said. He drew his pistol and held it at his side so that Víctor could see it.
“¡Por favor, no!”
“You will do what you’ve been asked to do, yes?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll inform on your own people when you are asked to, yes?”
“Yes!”
“Do I have to send my friend in here again to make sure? He’ll step on your balls until they break.”
“No, no, I’ll do anything you ask! Please, don’t kill me.”
Matías holstered his weapon. Almost unconsciously he adjusted his tie at his throat. “I’m tired of playing games with you sons of bitches,” he said. “It ends now.”
EIGHT
CRISTINA LET FREDDIE PLAY HIS GAME. SHE returned to work for a few hours, but got nothing done. When she returned, she got him into bed on time, but she wasn’t tired. She tried tranquilizing herself with a beer, sitting on the couch, a cooking program on the television. Every time headlights flashed in the street she tensed up all over again.
Again and again she had caught herself thinking about what she would do if José Martinez’s men struck. Her route to work was straightforward and wouldn’t take anyone watching long to figure out. Freddie’s schedule was absolute and could not be tampered with; any deviation could set him into a tailspin and ruin his entire day. He had to be up at the same time, be put to bed at the same time and all things must happen in a regimental order, even walking to the bus.
She found that she wasn’t concerned for herself. It wasn’t as though she didn’t care if some Azteca soldier found her on the street, but she didn’t think of the eventuality as something that affected her and her alone. If she had to,
she could take a bullet. She wasn’t afraid of that. She feared only for Freddie.
If she was gone, Freddie had no one to look out for him. No grandparents, no aunts or uncles. His father might be tracked down, though it would take time. In the meanwhile he would pass into the foster system, one that was completely inadequate for his needs. Cristina was sure everyone would mean well and that they would try, but it would not be enough. It could never be enough. Freddie needed his mother.
Cristina was on her second bottle and was not soothed. She decided to put the lights out in the front room and stand in the dark, peering out onto the street through the parted curtains, watching for any sign. If they were keeping track of her already then they were better than she gave them credit for. That a bunch of overgrown hard-drinking, hard-partying children could make her so anxious gave her pride a twist. She had to remember that they were kids with guns.
She wasn’t sure how Matías Segura managed it, living on the Juárez side of the border. When McPeek told her that he had been targeted there had been shock, but also a deeper understanding that this was what passed for normal in the city to the south. In America they called it a War on Drugs, but in Mexico it was literally war. How long could they keep it contained on the other side of the fence? It could start with her. With Freddie.
Freddie was deeply asleep when she went to his door, breathing loudly in his small bed. Soon he would outgrow it and need a full-sized mattress. Cristina was losing her little boy. For an instant she saw him in her arms, soaked in blood, and she covered her face reflexively to make the image go away. Things would not end that way.
For a while she sat down beside his bed, letting the big red numbers on his clock slip by. He didn’t stir when she rested a hand on his chest. She could feel his heart beating. Once again, for the thousandth time, she wondered what he could be dreaming about. Was it elevators and Roblox, or did his intensely literal mind finally let go in sleep and take to the skies in fancy?
Cristina felt like she might cry and she retreated from the room, pulling the door just to. In her bedroom she used her phone to call Robinson. He answered right away. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey, yourself. You’re up late.”
“You, too.”
“I can’t sleep. It happens sometimes. What’s your excuse?”
“You know. All of this. Freddie. He doesn’t deserve to be caught up in what’s happening.”
“There’s nothing that says you have to stay there,” Robinson said. “You could get a hotel room for a little while, change things up. You’re practically on José’s doorstep, living where you are. I worry, too.”
“I can’t leave here, Bob. Freddie wouldn’t understand and he needs to have his things.”
“What, then?”
Cristina sat on the edge of her bed and kicked off her shoes. Sleep was no closer than it had been before, but maybe the act of undressing and lying down would make her body react. It was worth a try.
“Cris? What do you want to do?”
“I think we should talk to McPeek about closing this out. The whole thing. We have enough to take down José and I’m sure they’ve got solid enough charges against his soldados to reel in a serious catch.”
“You think she’ll go for it?”
“Maybe. If I say we’re going to pull Flip, she might be amenable to the change. Without him they don’t have the warehouse, they don’t have the Juárez killing… it takes a lot off the table.”
Robinson was quiet, and then he said, “You know she’ll just take over from us. She’s got her hooks into Flip as much as we do. And he’ll have to go along because otherwise she’ll have him back at Coffield doing time for everything. He won’t last a stretch inside if anyone guesses what he was up to.”
“I’m running out of options to play,” Cristina said.
“If you want to talk to her, then we’ll talk,” Robinson said. “Maybe she’ll listen up when she hears José’s thinking about green-lighting cops. It would make me pay attention.”
“I don’t know if that will be enough. It’s just talk.”
“José’s cold enough to order one of his own men shot just because he might make a deal with the state. He’s cold enough to take out a police officer. For my money, that’s worth a trip to jail.”
“She wants this warehouse deal,” Cristina said.
“We can’t always get what we want. When do you want to see her?”
“Tomorrow,” Cristina said. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”
“All right. In the meantime, get some rest; you’re no good to me fried.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good night.”
NINE
“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” MCPEEK SAID. “You want us to make our move now, when we still have a case to make? That’s what you’re saying, right?”
They sat in McPeek’s office with the door closed and the atmosphere was close. An air vent over Cristina’s head made noise, but nothing seemed to come out. Robinson stood over her with his arms crossed in front of him. McPeek’s desk was in a kind of organized chaos, with photographs and paperwork and folders arranged in some system Cristina could not understand.
“José’s talking about killing cops,” Cristina said. “That’s serious.”
“I agree, which is why I don’t want to see José go down on any charges that aren’t going to keep him in prison for a very long time. If you’re concerned about your safety, I’ll arrange for protection. You can be relocated.”
“She won’t move,” Robinson said.
“Why not?” McPeek asked.
“It’s complicated,” Cristina said.
“Uncomplicate it for me.”
Cristina looked to Robinson. He said, “We’re concerned about our informant, Felipe Morales, too.”
“Flip’s turning in good evidence, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then he’s not a major concern. You said he got José to admit, on tape, that he’s going to use Flip’s workplace as a destination for drug shipments, didn’t you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Anything else he does at this point is just icing on the cake. He doesn’t have to stick his neck out. Tell him to let things progress naturally, not to force it.”
“I want to pull him,” Cristina said.
McPeek looked at her hard. “That’s not going to happen.”
“You said yourself that he’s just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s now.”
“Those things have to be done. The more we get from him, the better the case. You ought to know that better than anyone. What’s going on here?”
Robinson pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “We’re both nervous about safety moving forward. This whole thing is close to the finish and we don’t want bullets to start flying. Especially at us or the people working for us.”
“It’s taken care of,” McPeek said. She pulled a piece of notepaper from a pad. “Give me your addresses and I’ll have someone watching your homes 24/7.”
“And Flip?” Cristina asked. “Who’s watching out for him?”
“Flip’s taking big chances, but that’s what’s going to keep him out of prison,” McPeek said. “Now, are you going to give me those addresses or not?”
“Fine.”
McPeek took down their information and then picked up the phone. “I’m going to arrange this right now,” she said.
She talked on the phone for ten minutes while Cristina and Robinson could only watch. Cristina thought she might have felt a breath of air come from above, or it might have been her imagination. If the door was open it would be easier to breathe. Cristina felt tight across the chest. Freddie, she thought. Now someone would be watching him, but she did not stop worrying.
When she was done on the phone, McPeek said, “I hope that’s good enough. You want me to have armed agents stationed in your house, Detective Salas?”
“No,” Cristina said and she flushed. Wheth
er from embarrassment or anger, she didn’t know.
“Detective Robinson, are you satisfied?”
“I guess so.”
McPeek steepled her fingers. “In the next few weeks we’re going to roll up José Martinez’s operation. I got word this morning that there’s been a major break on the Mexican side. This is going to be big. The only thing everyone has to do is keep calm and stay the course. There will be enough credit for all of us to share. You brought us Flip and that’s going to count for a lot, especially when he testifies. Now I don’t want to be rude, but what else do you need from me?”
“Nothing,” Cristina said and she stood up.
“And if you’re concerned about Flip, don’t be. José doesn’t suspect a thing or he wouldn’t open his mouth so wide when Flip’s around. Flip’s going to make it out of this okay.”
Robinson opened the door. “Thanks for your time, Agent McPeek.”
“I’m always available.”
Cristina said her good-byes and let Robinson escort her from the building. They walked down a sun-washed sidewalk toward the parking lot. Robinson had a ball cap on. Cristina put on sunglasses. Summer in El Paso was punishing. “I guess that’s it, then,” she said.
“What else did you expect? I told you—”
“Yeah, you told me.”
“Cris, you know I’ll always stick by you when you’re right.”
Cristina smiled a half-smile and put out a hand for Robinson to shake. “Do you think I’m right about this?”
“I think you have cause to worry. And now things are being done.”
“I want to talk to Flip,” Cristina said.
“What about?”
“About keeping his head down.”
“I think he knows that already.”
“But he doesn’t know how close we are. I want him up to speed so he can make the right decisions. He’s putting it all out there for us. We owe him the truth.”
“We can’t have him crawl up into his shell,” Robinson said. “Not right now. You heard McPeek. The better he does for us, the better he does for himself.”
“Is it a crime to worry if a good kid gets himself killed?” Cristina asked.
