Narcos

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Where are we going tonight?” Aguilar asked. He couldn’t believe the man who had let a murderer walk free was lecturing him about being three minutes late for a shift.

  “I showed you the city during the day. Now it’s time to see it at night. That’s when most of the bad guys are out.”

  “So we’ll be doing some real police work?”

  “If we’re unlucky,” Montoya answered. He opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel. “Get in.”

  Aguilar wondered how long it would be until he could drive. Maybe never, as long as he was partnered with Montoya. Someday, though, he would be the senior officer, training some green rookie like himself.

  Then he would always drive.

  Montoya was quiet, resisting Aguilar’s attempts to draw him into conversation. He drove like he had a destination in mind. He took them up Calle 58 through Enciso, then cut through La Ladera, and continued working his way up the mountain. Finally, they reached the end of the paved road and started along a dusty dirt track. There were no lights anywhere except the headlights of the Nissan and the glow of Montoya’s constant cigarettes. He had been lighting each one from the butt of the last, and refusing to talk, answering every question with a grunt or a monosyllabic response, if at all.

  Finally, he stopped and turned off the engine. A cloud of dust lifted around them, then settled. The motor ticked. After what seemed an eternity, Montoya opened his door and got out. Aguilar did likewise.

  “What are we doing here, Alberto? What’s going on?”

  Montoya just looked at him. A quarter moon provided faint, silvery illumination. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, what’s your decision?”

  Aguilar had suspected something like this, from his partner’s odd behavior. They were alone on the mountainside. If he gave the wrong answer, he might never leave here. He would be buried in a shallow grave, or left for wild animals. Luisa might never know what had become of him, and would spend the rest of her life wondering.

  Until this moment, Aguilar hadn’t been sure what his answer would be. Now he swallowed. He couldn’t look at the other man when he spoke. “I’m in.”

  “Good.” The word puffed from Montoya like an exhalation; Aguilar hadn’t realized until that moment that the veteran officer was also nervous. Maybe that meant he wasn’t so bad, after all. He hadn’t wanted to bring Aguilar up here to kill him. “Good, that’s the right choice.”

  “I’m not so sure I have a choice.”

  “If that’s the best way for you to look at it, that’s fine. It’s true enough. None of us do, really.”

  “I don’t like it, though.”

  “None of us like it, either,” Montoya said. “It’s as it must be, that’s all.”

  “Does that mean we can go back to the city?” Aguilar asked. “Maybe do some police work?”

  “We can try,” Montoya said, coming close to him. “But first…” He unbuttoned Aguilar’s shirt pocket and tucked something inside. “That’s for you. Don’t look at it now. You can look when you get home. Now come on… let’s catch some bad guys.”

  * * *

  The payment that first night was ten thousand pesos. Aguilar bought a new refrigerator for the apartment; the one they had was a cast-off that barely kept things cool, and was too small to hold more than enough food for a couple of days. When Luisa came home and saw it, she clapped her hands together, then wept, then pushed him down on the kitchen floor and made love to him right there in front of it.

  After, holding her in bed, he thought about it. It was such a small thing, really. He had actually made the decision the moment he got back into the Nissan on that first day, instead of going to the detectives to tell them what Montoya had done. From that point, there had been no going back. All the agonizing, the soul-searching, had been theater, nothing more.

  The money wasn’t much, either. He wouldn’t complain, of course—it had bought him a new refrigerator and an incredibly erotic bout of lovemaking with his Luisa.

  And all he’d had to do to earn it was close his eyes. So easy. Any Colombian had to do the same a hundred times a day, or be driven mad. What must his parents have had to close their eyes to during La Violencia, the decade-long spasm that had seen two hundred thousand Colombians butchered?

  If they could do it then, he could do it now.

  * * *

  For the rest of that week, Aguilar rode with Montoya, and stayed in the SUV while Montoya went into businesses and came out with envelopes or folded cash. They made some arrests, investigated traffic accidents, gave directions to people who were lost. They stayed busy, but Aguilar already found himself getting bored. Compared to that first day, with the adrenaline rush of the gunfight, his days seemed quiet, as if Medellín were a provincial backwater, not Colombia’s second largest city.

  Aguilar had Sunday off. He and Luisa went to Mass, then took a walk through nearby Parque La Milagrosa, enjoying the crackle of autumn leaves under their feet, with cloudy skies overhead promising rain. Back home, as the rain fell, they made love and lay in bed talking about their future. With two paychecks coming in, and the promise of more from Escobar, they were looking forward to better times than they had anticipated even a month earlier. They talked about getting a bigger apartment, or even buying a house one day, with a room for each of the children they would have. Maybe a car, as well. Aguilar didn’t know many people who had moved from poverty to the middle class, but he knew it could be done. And it looked like he and Luisa might do it.

  On Monday, he went back to work.

  Halfway through their shift, Montoya stopped outside a restaurant in Belén. It looked like a thriving place, in a good neighborhood. He got out of the vehicle, then nodded at Aguilar. “Come on.”

  It took a moment for Aguilar to comprehend his meaning. “What, inside?”

  “We don’t have all day.”

  Aguilar got out and went with him.

  It was beautiful inside, the nicest restaurant he had ever been in. Against one wall was a shiny wooden bar, and behind it were brightly lit glass shelves stocked with high-end liquor on the wall. The tables and chairs were wood and steel, the tables inlaid with glass. Ferns hung on chains from the beamed ceiling. Soft lighting gave it all a shimmering glow. Colombian pop music played from hidden speakers, and the aromas from the kitchen made Aguilar’s mouth water.

  They had come between the lunch and dinner hours, so it was quiet inside; a couple of men in expensive suits drank at the bar, but the restaurant was empty. A young woman in a low-cut dress rushed to meet them when they entered, but a short, balding man came out from behind the bar, wearing an apron over his guayabera shirt and creased pants, and waved her away. “I’ll deal with them,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  She shrugged and headed back to the kitchen. The man gave Montoya a grin and a handshake, and looked curiously at Aguilar.

  “New guy,” Montoya said.

  The man laughed. “Oh, a virgin? But you’re breaking him in, right?”

  “Of course,” Montoya replied, chuckling.

  “What’s up with his skin? Why is he spotted?”

  Montoya twitched his shoulders. “That’s just how he looks. It doesn’t make him deaf.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything.” The man reached into his pants pocket. “Bad day for Atlético Nacional. I’m distracted,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. When he pulled his hand free, there was a wad of cash in it. He handed it to Montoya, disguised as a handshake, but everybody knew what had just transpired.

  Back in the four-wheeler, Aguilar asked, “What was that money for?”

  Montoya shot him a stern look. “You’re lucky you’re asking me that, and not El Patrón.”

  “El Patrón?” Aguilar echoed.

  “You really are a virgin,” Montoya said, shaking his head. “Pablo Escobar. El Patrón. It’s his money.”

  “I knew that. I mean, why? Why does that guy pay off Escobar? It looks lik
e he runs a successful business of his own.”

  “He does. And he owns several expensive automobiles. He has a Mercedes, of course, and a Corvette. He also has one of the only Bentleys in Medellín, and he wants to keep it.”

  “I don’t… I don’t understand. I thought Escobar’s business was drugs.”

  “Cocaine is his main business,” Montoya said. “But he’s a man of many interests. Years ago, before the cocaine, he stole cars. A nice car would disappear off the street, and within a few hours, Don Pablo would have it in pieces, and sell the parts for a big profit. Then he figured out that some people—those with the most expensive cars, and therefore the most money—would pay to have their cars not stolen. Less work for Don Pablo, less risk, and more money.”

  “Smart,” Aguilar had to admit.

  “He’s done it all. Smuggled cigarettes and liquor. Marijuana. Sold counterfeit lottery tickets. Kidnapping. Now, cocaine. Next month, next year, who knows? He gets bored easily, I think. Anything that will turn a profit and interest him, he’ll try.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well,” Montoya said. “But well enough. Soon, you will, too.”

  Aguilar wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  He’d heard plenty of stories about Escobar. The man was a ruthless criminal with the blood of dozens on his hands. But at the same time, Aguilar had heard that he shared his riches with the poor. A man who did that couldn’t be all bad, could he?

  Still, Montoya worked for him, and seemed to be bringing Aguilar into the organization. At some point, he would have to meet his other employer, he supposed. The idea was at once terrifying and thrilling.

  For a couple of weeks, it continued like that. Mostly, he and Montoya did police work. Occasionally, they did chores for Escobar. A couple of times, they picked up packages from one person and delivered them to another, always collecting a tip of a few hundred pesos at each end. Montoya introduced him to the people he collected money from regularly, but there was no more talk about meeting Escobar himself.

  Then came the day that Montoya held out the keys to the Nissan, and didn’t snatch them back. Instead, he dropped them in Aguilar’s hand.

  “Really? I’m driving?”

  “I have other things to do today,” Montoya said. “You’re driving yourself. You know what to do, where to go, right?”

  Aguilar knew the routine by now. “Of course.”

  “One more thing,” Montoya said, handing Aguilar a folded slip of paper. “At noon exactly, you’re to meet a man at this address. His name is Hernan Garcia. He needs a ride. He’ll tell you where to take him. Don’t talk to him, just drive him.”

  “Is he… one of Escobar’s?”

  Montoya clucked at him. “You should know better than to ask such questions.”

  “Sorry,” Aguilar said. “How will I know him?”

  “He’ll know you,” Montoya replied. “Now go. And don’t forget. Noon exactly. Not earlier, not later. Noon.”

  5

  DRIVING THROUGH THE crowded streets was nerve-wracking. Aguilar had only driven cars a few times; his parents had owned one briefly, but they’d had to sell it. A friend had taught him to drive, and let Aguilar borrow his car from time to time, but he’d never handled anything the size of the Nissan Patrol. At the same time, he had to watch for crimes being committed or people in need.

  But none of it made him more anxious than his noon appointment. Who was this Hernan Garcia? Why couldn’t he take his own car, or a taxi? Why did he need someone to pick him up in a police vehicle? Various scenarios flitted through Aguilar’s head, but he knew that whatever the reality was, it was probably something he couldn’t even imagine.

  Nervous, he got to the address Montoya had given him five minutes early. Montoya had told him not to, so he stopped several doors down. There were no parking places, but nobody was going to complain if a police vehicle blocked the lane for a few minutes. He’d been driving with the window down, trying to force out some of the stink of Montoya’s cigarettes, and he waited with his left arm hanging out the window, enjoying the cool fall day. He heard a radio playing in a nearby apartment, the sounds of children playing in a hidden courtyard.

  Then, he heard—from a building three doors ahead of his position—the unmistakable pop of gunshots. Three, then two more. Startled, he almost missed the sound of church bells tolling noon.

  He put the Nissan into gear and rolled up to the front door of the address he’d been given.

  A man stepped out of the door as he approached, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other. On his gray suit and shiny black shoes were damp spots that might have been blood. He looked over at Aguilar and nodded twice, then headed for the back door.

  “Mr. Garcia?” Aguilar asked.

  “Yes,” the man said. He opened the door and got inside. When he was settled in the back, he told Aguilar an address. “Right away, please,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” Aguilar put the car in gear and drew away from the curb. He tried not to let Garcia see how badly his hands were shaking.

  On the drive, Garcia was silent. He sat calmly in the back seat, as if he had just come from a nice lunch with friends.

  Aguilar had to look at a map to find the address he’d been given. It was in El Poblado, high up in the hills. He had never been up in that neighborhood—never had a reason to go there. But he wasn’t about to argue with Garcia. He followed winding streets that led past El Poblado’s cluster of high-rise apartment buildings, up to where the houses were spaced farther and farther apart, interspersed with trees and surrounded by high walls. The air was a few degrees cooler here than it was down in the valley.

  Finally, he came to the address and started up the driveway. It wound up through a wooded stretch, and then took a sharp curve. Immediately after the curve, Aguilar had to slam on the brakes; there was a gate across the road, with a wooden guardhouse nestled in the trees beside it. “Now what, sir?” Aguilar asked.

  “Just wait,” Garcia said.

  After a few moments, two young men emerged from the guardhouse carrying guns. One of them, Aguilar saw, was Snake-eyes.

  His anxiety turned to real fear. Was this Escobar’s house? Why else would Snake-eyes be at the gate? He gripped the wheel hard to calm the tremors in his hands. Sweat trickled down his sides, under his uniform shirt.

  The other guy, still in his teens and armed with a shotgun, nodded to Garcia in the back. “I don’t know you,” he said to Aguilar. His hair was long, scraggly, and he looked like he was trying to grow a beard but couldn’t manage it yet.

  “He’s cool,” Snake-eyes put in. “I know him. Hey, brother.”

  “Hey,” Aguilar said, hoping he sounded half as cool as Snake-eyes had said.

  The teenager opened the gate. “Head on up, then,” he said.

  “Thanks.” Aguilar gave them both a nod and pressed on the gas. A little too hard—the SUV lurched, pressing him back against his seat and no doubt doing the same for Garcia. “Sorry,” he said, slowing down.

  “No problem,” Garcia said. They were the first words he’d spoken since giving Aguilar the address. His voice was smooth, cultured. Aguilar wondered what his story was. Escobar’s sicarios seemed to be young men, but this guy was middle-aged, in his forties at least. And his suit wasn’t typical sicario dress, either. “Be calm, everything will be fine. You’ll just drop me off. You’ll get a small tip, and then you’ll be on your way.”

  “Okay,” Aguilar said, his voice catching in his throat.

  The drive wound through more trees, then came out into an open expanse, in the midst of which stood a large house. It was three stories tall, stucco-walled, with a red-tile roof. Aguilar wasn’t sure if he’d call it a mansion, but it was more luxurious than any house he had ever been inside.

  At the front were four steps, leading up to a door tall enough to admit giants. “Just there,” Garcia said. “The foot of the stairs will be fine.”

  Aguilar p
ulled the car to a stop. He waited there a moment, and when Garcia didn’t budge, he realized his error. He killed the engine, got out, and walked around to open Garcia’s door. Then the older man climbed out and thanked him.

  As he started up the stairs, the massive door opened and a portly man with wavy dark hair and a mustache emerged from inside. He wore a blue shirt with white vertical stripes, blue jeans, and white sneakers. Aguilar had seen his picture many times.

  Pablo Escobar.

  He froze.

  Escobar laughed. “You’re the new policeman?”

  Aguilar’s voice caught again. He cleared his throat, then managed, “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jose Aguilar Gonzales.”

  “You’re the one partnered with Montoya.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s a good man, Montoya.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, sir. You’re El Patrón. Mr. Escobar.”

  Escobar came down the stairs, shaking Garcia’s hand as he came. “Everything went well?” he asked. His skin was light, his features more European than native, but his accent was heavy—a Paisa accent. He had come from here, as Aguilar had.

  “Very well,” Garcia said.

  “Go on in, have a drink. I’ll be right there.”

  Garcia obeyed. After he was inside, Escobar descended the last two steps and held out his hand. “Thank you for bringing him up,” he said. He clasped Aguilar’s hand. When he drew his hand away, Aguilar’s palm was full of paper. He started to hand it back, then realized what it must be—his tip—and stuffed it into a pocket without looking at it.

  “Thank you, El Patrón,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  “I look forward to getting to know you better,” Escobar said. “You must come up for a drink sometime. You and Montoya.”

  “I would like that.”