Narcos

by Jeff Mariotte

“He lost a shipment. A hundred and twenty kilos. He called and said the Miami cops seized it, but he got away without getting busted.”

  “Except Lehder and I have been watching the newspapers,” Lion said. “A seizure like that would have made the news, but this one didn’t.”

  “So what do you think happened?” Trigger asked.

  “I think he’s selling it himself, freelance, and pocketing the whole take,” Escobar said. He sounded sorrowful. “I trusted him. He makes millions, but he’s never been satisfied with that. Always wanting more. It’s a sickness with some people.”

  “I can’t say I never expected it,” Lion added. “He complains a lot. He spends a lot, and he gambles. You can’t trust a gambler.”

  “Where is he?” La Quica asked.

  “We don’t know,” Lion said.

  “He’ll meet with us tomorrow to discuss things,” Escobar added. “Today… let’s have some fun.”

  27

  THEY DONNED SWIMMING trunks and went to the beach, where Lion arranged a private cabana for them. There, they drank good liquor and splashed in the waves. Lion’s promise of beautiful women in tiny bikinis was true. Luxurious yachts and massive cruise and cargo ships cut across the horizon. Aguilar assumed that a city as large as Miami would have its share of poverty, but he hadn’t seen it—even Little Havana appeared fairly well-to-do. Back home, it was everywhere, but here, if it existed, it was kept carefully away from public view. The lives he saw looked charmed, all sunshine and good times.

  Later, half-drunk, they had a huge dinner at one of the hotel’s ritziest restaurants, washed down with yet more alcohol.

  After dinner, they sat in the suite for a while, drinking and swapping stories. Finally, Lion announced that it was time to go out. Aguilar went back to his room and dressed in the nicest clothes he’d brought: a pastel Gianni Versace suit with a flowered silk shirt left open to his midsection, a couple of thin gold chains around his neck, and Bruno Magli loafers with silk socks. He spent some time in the bathroom working on his hair, before finally deciding there was nothing more he could do about it. Besides, with his skin, most people didn’t even notice that he had hair. He looked as good as he was going to look, but he was sure all the other guys—the ones without jaguar skin—would attract women before he did.

  For that matter, he wasn’t sure he was ready to be with another woman. Everyone expected to bring somebody back to the suite—that, after all, was one of the reasons for all the separate bedrooms. In theory, the idea appealed to him. It had been a long time, and a man had needs, after all.

  But the long shadow of Luisa lay over all thoughts of intimacy. Would he be able to make love to someone without thinking about her? He supposed if he were drunk enough, he might. But then how would he feel in the morning? Relieved that he’d gotten through it, or wracked with guilt?

  He determined to just go with the flow and see what happened. If there was a woman that he found attractive, and she wasn’t repelled by his scarred flesh, maybe the questions would answer themselves.

  When they met up again in the foyer, Escobar was the only one who hadn’t changed. He had on the same white jeans, sneakers, and the striped shirt he’d worn on the airplane. He looked over the others. “You look good,” he said.

  Aguilar supposed that was a sign of the confidence that came with vast wealth and power. Escobar didn’t have to dress up. The very fact that he didn’t would draw people to him, because they would know that he was someone. The other guys would be competing with every other man in the club, each of whom would have dressed in his finest, while El Patrón would just sit back and watch the cream of the crop gravitate toward him.

  Lion had hired a white stretch limousine almost as long as a soccer field. When they showed up in it, Aguilar knew, they would attract attention. And it would provide plenty of space in which to take women back to the suite, later on. It seemed Lion had thought of everything.

  When they arrived at the club, Aguilar could feel the bass notes booming through his bones. A line waited outside, and a crew of burly bouncers vetted people carefully before letting them in. Some walked away dejectedly and others sat on the curb crying, having been denied entrance.

  Lion swaggered up to the nearest bouncer and spoke into his ear for a minute. Aguilar couldn’t tell if he also slipped the man some cash, but the man threw Escobar a wide grin and beckoned them all toward the door, bypassing the line completely. People in line watched with puzzlement, admiration, or scorn. Lion’s strategy had worked—everyone in line saw them exit the huge white limo and be waved straight inside. By now they would be objects of curiosity and interest, and when these people got inside—those who were admitted—they’d be itching to satisfy that curiosity.

  “He’s a good host, Lion,” Aguilar said to Trigger as they reached the door. Trigger replied, but his words were lost in the roar of music swelling forth when the door swung open for them.

  Inside, the place was rocking.

  Bodies gyrating to a disco beat jammed the dance floor. He saw people he recognized, movie stars and musicians. He had never paid much attention to celebrities, so he couldn’t come up with any names, but he knew the faces.

  What light there was bounced all over the place, never still but flashing, moving, multicolored. Various smells—tobacco and clove cigarettes, pot, sweat, cologne, perfume—battled for supremacy. A hostess led the party to a large, private booth, where champagne bottles waited in ice-filled buckets and fluted glasses were already in position. The men took seats and the hostess—young, slim, possibly one of the fashion models Lion had mentioned—opened a bottle and poured champagne for everyone. “Enjoy yourselves,” she shouted. She touched her nose with a knuckle and sniffled before whirling around and disappearing into the crowd. Great, Aguilar thought, our hostess has a cold.

  La Quica drained his first glass and poured himself another. Sure Shot was close behind. Escobar, Aguilar noted, only sipped at his. He sat back in his seat, smiling, looking out at the scene before him. He looks like a king, Aguilar thought, watching his court. Deciding who’ll share his bed tonight and who’ll lose their heads by morning.

  Aguilar drank his, not gulping it down but not sipping. Trigger had barely touched his, but Aguilar had noticed that he didn’t drink much. After his second round, La Quica slammed his glass down on the table. “I’m dancing!” he announced. “Anybody else?”

  “Dancing with who?” Aguilar asked.

  La Quica laughed and gestured toward the dance floor. “Everybody!”

  Aguilar’s back was to the dance floor. He swiveled in his seat and saw what La Quica meant. There were few visible couples or partners; most people simply moved, many with their eyes closed. They were staying with the beat of the music, or not. Many seemed lost inside themselves, involved in a kind of communal orgy of solitude.

  He wondered if he could reach that state. Self-consciousness had been a constant since childhood, as a result of his burns and the knowledge that wherever he went, everyone noticed him. The dancers before him seemed to have left self-consciousness behind. They looked good, they knew, but they didn’t care who was looking. Maybe that was a quality reserved for the beautiful.

  While he pondered, La Quica and Sure Shot moved onto the floor. Right away, they were dancing, drawing nods or smiles from women who could have escaped from magazine covers or centerfolds. As quickly as those silent acknowledgements were made, they were withdrawn; eyes closed again or gazes blank, empty, as if to say, “Feel free to dance near me, but you’re not dancing with me.”

  That might feel like dismissal, Aguilar thought. On the other hand, it didn’t judge. He polished off his glass and said, “I’m dancing, too.”

  “I’ll come,” Jairo said.

  Trigger, Lion, and Escobar remained at the table, happy for now to drink and observe. Aguilar and Jairo went to the edge of the dance floor. It seemed hotter here, more humid, louder, the bass notes rising up through the floor and making Aguilar’s teeth ac
he. He started bobbing his head, connecting to the beat, then moving his hands, then giving himself up to the music. He lost track of Jairo, and everyone else. As he eased into the midst of the crowd, he bumped into people and they ran into him, and each was forgiven with a quick smile or nod. A gorgeous brunette locked eyes with him and matched his steps for a minute, then spun away.

  The songs blended into one another. He didn’t recognize any of them, but that didn’t matter. Here, it was about the beat, about letting the music take control of legs and arms and torso. It was loud enough to drive most conscious thought from his mind, and the alcohol he had consumed throughout the afternoon and evening helped deal with the rest. He was barely aware that self-consciousness had fled. Maybe he looked like a fool, trying to keep up with these beautiful people although he had jaguar skin and didn’t know any of the right dance steps. He didn’t care. He was here, he was alive, he was flesh and bone and muscle, drive and ambition, strengths and fears and weaknesses, but he was one with the music and with the bodies moving around him.

  He felt the almost hypnotic spell break when he saw a stunning young woman in a slinky dress open a kind of locket hanging on a slender chain around her neck. She raised it to her right nostril, plugged the left with a thumb, and snorted. She seemed to disappear into herself for a moment, then almost forgetfully closed the locket, and broke into a grin. She kept on dancing, but grabbed onto the guy nearest her—Aguilar couldn’t tell if they were together, but the guy accepted her overture with a smile—and pressed herself against him.

  Cocaine.

  He almost never saw it used, back home. Sure, there was a small market for it, but not among the people he knew. Escobar frowned upon its use by his people—every gram snorted was one not sold for a profit. As far as Aguilar knew, Escobar had never even tried the stuff that had made him a billionaire. Aguilar never had, either.

  Once he was aware of it, he saw more and more. When people dabbed at their noses, he realized, it was because they’d just taken some. The hostess didn’t have a cold, she’d snorted before they came in, or maybe even while leading them to their table. Dancers carried small containers of it in their pockets and offered it to those around them, or sniffed it up themselves.

  It wasn’t the music that drove these dancers. Not community, or sex—though that was certainly part of it—or freedom. It was coke, most or all of it brought to Miami by Pablo Escobar. Was that why he sat up there like a conquering hero? Did he know that his product was everywhere here, that if all the cases and vials and containers were opened at once, a snowstorm would result?

  Suddenly, Aguilar felt less like dancing. He needed to get off the dance floor, but not back to Escobar, not right now. He needed to pee anyway, so he figured out where the restrooms were and worked his way in that direction. It took a little while to navigate through the bodies, but soon enough he was in a tight, dimly lit hallway. A few people leaned against the walls, taking a break from the dancing, he guessed, or waiting their turn. One of them was a girl of more than surpassing beauty, with a figure that could have landed her a centerspread in any nudie magazine Aguilar had ever seen. She offered a wan smile as he squeezed past.

  In the men’s room, a guy in tight pants and an open shirt leaned over the little steel counter above the sink, a rolled-up dollar bill in his hand, snorting thick white lines. Other men stood at the urinals, including one propped up with one hand against the wall, head drooping as if he could barely stay awake. “Save some for me, Nicky,” he said.

  The guy at the sink poured more powder out on the counter and used a razor blade to divide it into straight lines. When he handed the bill over to the second man, Aguilar saw that it was a hundred dollars, not a single one. “All yours,” the second man said, tilting his head toward the urinal.

  Aguilar took his place there and unzipped. Behind him, he heard loud snorting, followed by, “Fuck yes, that’s better.”

  When he was finished, there were already men at the other urinals and some waiting in line. A couple of them were sniffling or rubbing their noses, actions Aguilar thought he would forever associate with cocaine use from that day forward.

  Back in the narrow corridor, the woman he’d noticed before was still there. She had turned to face the men’s room, and when she saw him coming, a shy smile crept across her face and she moved away from the wall, half-blocking his way.

  “Hi there,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, what a cute accent! Where are you from?”

  “I’m Colombian,” he said.

  She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “Ooh, mysterious Colombia! Are you a gangster? Some kind of narco kingpin?” She laughed at herself, and he joined in.

  “Is that all you think of when you hear Colombia?” he asked. “We have a great culture. Writers, artists, engineers, architects, everything you have here.”

  “I was teasing,” she said, clutching his arm. “I’m sorry. I just thought you looked cute and I wanted to get to know you.”

  “Cute?” he echoed. “Me?”

  “Handsome, I mean.” She batted her eyes, a little too obviously, he thought. If this was flirting, she wasn’t that good at it. Maybe she’d never had to be, with that face and that body.

  “You’re blind. Beautiful, but blind.”

  She squeezed the arm tighter. “No, I’m not. Maybe we can find someplace quiet and get to know each other better.”

  “Quiet? In here?”

  Still holding his arm, she pressed the back of her other hand against his crotch and licked her lips. “Maybe outside there’s an alley. Or in your car? I could make you feel really good.”

  “I’m sure you could,” Aguilar said. This had suddenly turned strange. Girls in Colombia weren’t this aggressive.

  Unless they wanted something.

  “What are we waiting for, then?” She was standing so close that her breasts pressed against the arm she was holding onto. He could feel her breath against his skin. He wanted her; he could feel himself growing hard under the pressure of her hand.

  “What do you… what do you want?” he asked, not sure of how to better phrase it in English.

  “I just need a little something to get me through the night,” she said. She released his arm long enough to tap her nose. “A little toot?”

  “Cocaine?”

  “Shh!” She laughed. “Not so loud!”

  “It’s not exactly a secret in this place, is it? Or hard to find?”

  “I thought you looked nice. And like you might be fun, and maybe generous.”

  “I don’t have any drugs,” he said.

  “But you can get some.”

  “No. No, I really can’t.”

  She arched her back, pushing her breasts against him with more force. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he said.

  She let go of him and her face went hard. “Your loss,” she said. Then she turned away, back toward the restrooms. Waiting for somebody else, he figured.

  He needed to get out of here, needed some fresh air. Suddenly, this place had become suffocating.

  He pushed his way through the dance floor crowd again, this time bothered by the elbow jabs and knees and people stepping on him. His mood had turned sour, and he didn’t think he was getting back the temporary high he’d felt before, when he had given in to the throbbing music and the undulating masses of flesh. People at tables and booths on the perimeter were cutting lines right on the tables and snorting them. At the door, he nodded to the bouncer, to be sure he would be readmitted when he was ready to go back in.

  Outside, the night was still warm. Balmy. He had to walk halfway out into the parking lot before he stopped feeling the music vibrating through him. Here, it was calm, quiet. He realized he was sweating; inside, it had been barely noticeable, but now it was like he’d just stepped from the shower.

  Aguilar held his shirt open, trying to let the faint breeze dry his skin, when he heard what sounded like sobs mixed with
curses. The voice was vaguely familiar. One of the guys? No, the words he heard were English, he was certain. An American. Lion spoke English like an American, and Kyle Caldwell was American. One of them, then? He followed the sound to a silver Maserati. The front door was open, the interior light on, but he couldn’t see anyone.

  Stepping around the car, he found a man on his knees in the parking lot, shoulders and head inside the car. He wasn’t Lion or Caldwell, but he was clearly in a bad state. The curses and sobs were louder. Maybe he was sick. “Hey, do you need help?” Aguilar asked. “You maybe need a doctor or something?”

  The man drew himself out of the car and Aguilar was astonished to find that he recognized him. He couldn’t remember the name—one of those North American names that all sounded the same—but he was a movie star who’d appeared in five or six action movies that Aguilar had seen. With his wavy dark hair, square jaw, and weightlifter’s build, he was the guy who beat all the villains, saved the day, and bedded the girl in the end.

  Now, though, the hair hung in damp strings around his face. His cheeks were slick with tears and mucus, and dark threads were stuck to it. “What?” he asked.

  “I wanted to know if you needed a doctor or something. Are you okay?”

  “I spilled my stash on the floor,” he said. “I’m just trying to—”

  He stopped mid-sentence, as if speaking took too much of the energy better spent on other things. Then he stuck his head back into the car. Aguilar heard snorting, and realized the man—rich, famous, extraordinarily handsome—was snorting coke out of the carpet where his feet went when he drove.

  “Hey,” he started. But he watched the movie star’s back ripple as he sucked up the drug, and he decided not to finish.

  The man had other things on what was left of his mind.

  28

  NOT YET READY to go back inside, Aguilar walked around the building. There was an alley running behind it, as the woman inside had said. Illumination was scant; a couple of lights mounted high up on the building, and the faint glow of nearby streetlamps. It smelled like piss, vomit, and booze. Aguilar felt glass crunch under his feet. He almost turned around, but then saw a shadowed form halfway down the alley. It looked like a man, in seeming distress. He was reaching out, hands against the wall. Maybe just puking, but Aguilar wanted to make sure he was okay.