by Sam Hawken
“I am. How are you?”
“I’m kind of busy right now. I’m playing my game.”
“You play your game. I’m going to talk to Ashlee.”
Ashlee put the apron on a peg in the kitchen. Cristina went to join her. “What’s up?” Ashlee asked.
“Anything unusual happen today?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Anybody try to talk to you or Freddie?”
“No. Why?”
“I’m just checking,” Cristina said. She hadn’t shared with Ashlee the news about the FBI and if the girl hadn’t picked them out in their car that was okay. Telling Ashlee would open up a whole area of questioning Cristina wasn’t ready to deal with. Would Ashlee be safe going home or coming to the house? Did she need protection, too? And on and on.
“I guess since you’re here, I can go,” Ashlee said.
“Sure. I can take it from here.”
Ashlee gathered her things and gave Freddie a hug good-bye. “See you tomorrow, buddy,” she told him, but he had nothing to say.
“Be careful on the road,” Cristina told Ashlee, and when the girl had gone Cristina locked the door behind her. In their car the FBI agents would make note of Ashlee’s departure and the time, maybe even logging it into a book. Everything about Cristina’s house was subject to observation and report now. Again she felt discomfited.
“Hey, peanut,” Cristina said to Freddie, “how about you watch a video with me tonight? Okay?”
“Okay. Let me play first.”
“I’ll give you another thirty minutes.”
Ashlee had left no plate for Cristina tonight. The freezer was full of microwaveable meals and Cristina cooked one of those. She ate by the sink and tossed the flimsy tray in the trash when she was done. While Freddie played, she picked out a DVD of cartoons that were not too long. Anything past a few minutes tested Freddie’s ability to concentrate. In the words of the people at his school, watching a video with his mother was “not a preferred activity.”
They watched the cartoons and afterward it was time for bed. She came into his room after he had undressed, and she sat on the edge of his bed. The ceiling fan turned slowly above them, stirring the air. With the air conditioning on, the fan could make it uncomfortably cool in the room, but Freddie liked to bundle himself in blankets and did not mind.
“Hey,” Cristina said to him. “Can I talk to you about something?”
“What?”
“I want to talk to you. Can you show me your eyes, please? Over here. Look at my eyes.”
It was hard for him to focus on her for more than a second or two. Conversations were conducted at odd angles, as if Freddie and Cristina were displaced and no straight line could be drawn between them. When she asked to see his eyes he could barely maintain the contact, but she did it anyway because it was her way of telling him to pay close attention.
“Freddie, you know Mom does dangerous work sometimes, right?”
“Very dangerous,” Freddie said.
“That’s right. Mom deals with a lot of bad people and they do not nice things. But you know I’m very careful so I can always come home to you.”
“Are you careful?” Freddie asked. He looked at a hand-drawn picture on the wall of an elevator. The brand name of the elevator, Otis, was scrawled in his uneven hand.
“I am. And Uncle Bob is careful and all the people Mom works with are careful.”
Cristina wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, what she could say that would make sense to Freddie and stay in his mind. Many times she would speak and he would forget. It took long repetition for most things to sink in. Tonight she wanted him to remember.
“Are we going to have a story?”
“Yes. Listen, Freddie: sometimes the bad people try to hurt Mom because she puts their friends in jail. But they’re not going to get Mom and they’re not going to get you. We have people watching over us to make sure that doesn’t happen. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Freddie said.
Now she didn’t know if she was saying these things for Freddie or for herself. “I don’t want you to worry about Mom, okay? Mom is going to be all right and she’ll always come home to you. I promise.”
“I promise,” Freddie echoed, and then he made an oinking sound and giggled. “I’m a pig!”
A tear struggled in the corner of her eye and Cristina quashed it with a fingertip. “Okay,” she said. “Story time.”
FIFTEEN
MATÍAS OVERSLEPT AND DRAGGED HIMSELF to the bathroom to regard an unshaven face that had begun to look too ragged to be presentable. He showered and took a razor to it until he was happy with what he saw. Paco called while he was in the bathroom, but left no message. Matías called back.
“Paco, ¿qué necesitas?”
“A call came in from Víctor Barrios. He got to speak with Renato Durán.”
“And?”
“The deal is still on. José’s people are sending over the payment for the drugs tonight: a dozen assault weapons, plus ammunition. I have the time and place for delivery.”
Matías held the phone in the crook of his shoulder as he tied his tie in the mirror. The bed was unmade, the room generally messier than it had been when Elvira was around. The whole apartment was starting to slip. “Does he know what to do?” Matías asked.
“Yes. He tracks the distribution of the weapons and reports back to us. He says they’ll probably hold the guns in one of their stash houses first and then parcel them out when they can be sure no one’s paying attention anymore.”
“Those poor dumb bastards,” Matías said. “I almost feel sorry for them.”
“When are you coming in?”
“Soon. I got a late start today.”
“The FBI woman also called. McPeek? She wants to meet with us, with you. I told her we could do it in the afternoon. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. She probably heard about Guerra from someone and now she’s going to be in a panic. We have to keep control of this thing, Paco, for all our sakes. Those drugs have to ship. Víctor didn’t say anything about when they would go?”
“Nothing.”
Matías jerked his head in frustration. “I want you to call Felix Rivera and make sure he’s ready to move when we tell him. Everyone to the front lines. We hit all of Guerra’s old stash houses, the ones Víctor pointed out to us, just as soon as the shipment’s en route. We’ll cripple Los Aztecas, Paco. I know it.”
“And what we don’t do the Mexicles will handle?” Paco asked.
“Something like that.”
“Listen, Matías, there’s been some talking going on that maybe you ought to know about.”
In the kitchen Matías boiled water for coffee. He was already late, so there was no reason not to take the time. He grunted into the phone. “What kind of talking?”
“Los Aztecas have already targeted you once…”
“If they want to take another stab at it, they know where to find me,” Matías said. “But I think they have bigger problems to worry about. The Mexicles just killed one of their leading capos and they aren’t likely to stop there. I’m not going to let them scare me out of doing what needs to be done.”
“I didn’t say you were a coward, Matías.”
“When it comes to this, don’t worry about me,” Matías said. “Soon we’ll come down on Los Aztecas like the hand of God. Then we’ll all be on their list. You, too.”
“I don’t much like the idea of that.”
“This is Juárez, Paco. Everyone’s a target. Let me drink my coffee and then I’ll be in. We can talk then.”
“See you, Matías.”
Matías ended the call and put the phone in his pocket. Now he had time to reflect on what Paco had told him and what it all meant. He hadn’t lied when he said he was not afraid. In Juárez there could be no fear because the moment a policeman started to worry about such things he was useless. People died in the city for no reason other than being in t
he wrong neighborhood when a firefight broke out. Bombs were going off. Citizens vanished off the streets and turned up on the side of the road missing limbs or heads. Matías could not afford fear in a place like this.
Once the water boiled he poured it into a French press over fresh-ground coffee to brew. He found himself eager for the taste of it, that first indicator that the day was begun, even though he was already falling behind. If Elvira was here, he wouldn’t be so sloppy; she kept him on schedule and focused. Waiting for his coffee, he realized again how much he missed her.
He wondered what she was doing right at that moment. The idle days had to be driving her mad, but despite calls and coaxing she had not relented in her decision. The last time they spoke, she offered Matías the name of a private security firm operating out of Monterrey. According to her, the firm was founded by an agent of the old AFI and there were people he might know working there. He hadn’t recognized any of the names she gave him.
Matías did not say yes to Elvira because he felt compelled to say no. Like a policeman did not show fear on the streets of Ciudad Juárez, Matías did not see himself stepping back from this, and it would be stepping back. She didn’t press further that time. Maybe she knew without Matías having to say anything, or maybe she was just waiting until the next time. He wished it could be next time right now, but he couldn’t be distracted by calling now. Maybe tonight. Maybe then.
SIXTEEN
THE WEEKEND CAME AND WENT. FLIP TOOK Graciela dancing at a new club, one José and the Indians did not frequent. It was a good time and afterward they went back to the new apartment for the night. In the dark he thought about asking Graciela how José had known she was pregnant, but the moment did not seem right and by the time the thought occurred to him again it was morning.
Flip hadn’t told his mother he was moving. Eventually he would have to, but he did not look forward to the reaction the news would bring. He was not a boy anymore, but to his mamá he would always be. Maybe leaving was a good thing.
Flip was on his lunch break at the warehouse when the call came. No one noticed when he stepped away from the picnic tables, or remarked when he turned his back to the others to speak. Flip was still ill at ease.
“Flip, it’s José.”
“José. What do you want?”
“Hey, I’m sorry I called you at work, okay? I just thought you might want to know: our first truck is coming through on Wednesday. I want you to tell that boss of yours which one to look out for. You got a pen?”
“Yeah, I got a pen.”
“Write this down.” José gave Flip an identifying number that Flip scrawled on the palm of his hand. “You know what the truck looks like, right? When you see it, you call me. And make sure your boss puts it somewhere out of the way. Nobody touches that truck until our people come to unload the stuff.”
“People are gonna ask why’s that truck just sitting there,” Flip said.
“Tell them you don’t know. Tell them it’s none of their business. It’s your boss that has to worry about that kind of thing. So long as he keeps up his end of the deal, I don’t care what he says to them. Remind him that I’m paying him a thousand bucks to do nothing. He’ll take it and like it or he’ll get another ass-whipping.”
Flip looked at the ground. “I’ll tell him,” he mumbled.
“Now listen to me, Flip. Listen carefully. I don’t want you around when the truck gets unloaded, all right? You leave that to the people I send. You’re my lookout, my man on the inside. That’s what you do.”
“Okay, José, I won’t stick around.”
“Good boy. Hey, how’s the new place working out?”
“It’s great, José, thanks.”
“You don’t need to thank me. I told you before, you’re my investment. You got to have nice things when you work for me. It means you’ll do good work. Anyway, I’ll talk to you later. Say hello to Graciela for me.”
“I will. Good-bye.”
Flip shut his phone and glanced back over his shoulder at the picnic tables. Not one curious eye was turned his way. He put the phone away and walked back toward the warehouse on heavy feet.
Since he came back to work, Alfredo had stopped taking his meals outside with the other workers. Instead he lurked in his office, filling out paperwork with one hand while eating with the other. He used to come out more often and talk to the guys on the job, but that had ended, too. Flip thought maybe it was because Alfredo did not want to see him.
He knocked on the office door. Alfredo looked up, saw him through the window, and looked back down at his work. Flip opened the door and came in.
“What the hell do you want?” Alfredo asked.
“José just called me.”
“The great José,” Alfredo remarked. “What the hell does he want?”
“The first truck is coming Wednesday. I don’t know what time. José wants to make sure you have an eye out for it. Here’s the registration number.” Flip wrote the number from his palm on a piece of notepaper and passed it to Alfredo.
Alfredo finally lifted his gaze to glare at Flip. “You people are really going to go through with it, aren’t you? This stupid plan to ship drugs into the country? All it would take is one phone call from me and the police would be all over this place just waiting for the chance to throw your worthless ass in jail.”
Flip thought he should be tough, but instead he wanted to throw himself down and beg Alfredo for forgiveness. He didn’t care how it would look, or anything about his pride. What he wanted was for things to be good again. Finally he said, “You wouldn’t snitch on José. You can’t.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“If you tell the cops, you’ll never be safe. José would put a green light out on you. Every Azteca in the city would have your name. You’d be a dead man.”
Alfredo said nothing for a long time, though his eyes were flinty. “You really are some piece of work. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was no way Silvia could have raised a piece of shit like you. Your father would disown you.”
“Don’t talk about my father.”
“Why not? You going to kill me yourself?”
“Just don’t talk about him. You want to be mad, then be mad at me.”
Alfredo paused. Flip saw he was gripping a pencil tightly. He was almost curious to see if it would snap. “You need to get the hell out of my sight,” Alfredo said. “Get out. Take the rest of the day off. Just go away.”
“I’ll finish my shift,” Flip said.
“What’s that supposed to be? You being responsible? Don’t make me laugh.”
“I’ll finish my shift,” Flip repeated.
“Then finish your goddamned shift. See if I care. If you won’t go away, then get out of my office. I don’t like the smell.”
Flip let himself out and did not slam the door. Walking away he could feel Alfredo watching him. He was glad to be outside again.
SEVENTEEN
IT WAS THE FIRST TIME CRISTINA HAD SEEN the whole group together since the first day she and Robinson were brought in on the operation. Everyone was there around the conference table and McPeek was at the head with her remote in her hand and a PowerPoint slide already displayed on the big screen. She waited until the room had settled and then she cleared her throat. “Welcome back,” she said. “We’re about to see everything come together.”
Cristina sat elbow to elbow with Robinson. When she glanced at him his attention was on McPeek. Where she was tense, he was relaxed. It was always that way between them.
“D-Day is tomorrow,” McPeek continued. “Yesterday we got confirmation through two sources that José Martinez and his crew are going to receive a shipment of narcotics from Mexico sometime Wednesday evening. You all got the packet I emailed about the target site, but here it is again: a food-shipping warehouse on the east side. José’s people will be on that site, collecting the goods, after they close for work at five o’clock.
“Representatives of the FBI,
DEA and local law enforcement will be on hand for the bust. Meanwhile other elements of the operation will stand ready to execute arrest warrants for forty-three suspected Aztecas, including José Martinez. We expect to haul in more dope and more guns when we make the arrests. Special Agent Muir of the ATF can give us some information about that.”
The man spoke up from his spot at the table: “We know that last week José Martinez’s outfit shipped twenty-four brand new AK-47s, purchased from one of our agents, into Juárez. The Mexican police have the serial numbers of the weapons and, upon seizure, will be able to confirm the transaction. They also sent a thousand rounds of 7.62mm ammunition down south. Clearly they don’t plan on letting those guns sit around picking up rust.”
“How do we know those guns haven’t already disappeared?” Cristina asked.
“I received word at a meeting with my opposite number in Juárez that the weapon situation was under control,” McPeek said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s under control,” McPeek said more firmly. “The Mexican authorities now know who receives weapons and where they’re kept after they make the crossing. It’s a real coup, and on this side of the border we get to stack gun charges on top of everything else José’s people are on the hook for.”
“Our agents have sold the Aztecas a pretty sizable arsenal of arms,” Muir said. “Pistols, shotguns, semiautomatic rifles. I want everyone here to know that they could be looking down the barrels of these guns when it comes time to put people in handcuffs. Every entry is considered high-risk.”
Robinson nudged Cristina’s arm and leaned in close. “When isn’t it?” he asked.
“We don’t want a shootout or a standoff on our hands when we go in,” McPeek said, “so our agents and officers on the ground are going to execute these warrants hard and fast. Are there any questions? Then let’s move on.”
There was more, but Cristina had heard all she needed to hear. At her level, they would be responsible for executing warrants, cleaning up the trash. She hadn’t expected any more than that and was not disappointed. The questions she had could not be asked in an open room. McPeek never mentioned Flip by name, but all of them knew that there was someone on the inside and that someone had given up José’s secrets.
