The Bones of Wolfe

by James Carlos Blake

  He tells us Chubasco must’ve been notified of the attack even while it was happening. The hilltop Jaguaros staking out Vista Pacifica saw him and some of his people—men and women both, some of the guys carrying automatic weapons—come out of the house and get into three white Chevy Tahoes. They stayed put, though, until a green Navigator with shot-up rear glass came wheeling up to the front gate and was waved through by the guards. It parked out of sight behind the house, and then a small bunch of men and women came running around to the Tahoes and got in, and off they all went down the road toward the aircraft plant. Shortly afterward Mateo’s man working with the road crew reported that both of Chubasco’s planes had taken off. Mateo then called a contact in Civil Aeronautics who was able to learn quickly that the two planes had filed plans for Loreto.

  “Ten to one they’re headed for the Finca,” Frank says. “If we want to try getting her back, Mateo thinks he can work out some kind of gun-delivery ploy to get us into the Finca tonight without any problem, but getting out of there with the kid or even without her could be a different matter. So. . . . What do we want to do?”

  “He really thinks he can get us in there?” I say.

  “That’s what he said. What do we do?”

  “Get her back,” Rayo says.

  Frank stares at her a moment, then turns to me.

  “Ah, hell,” I say. “Can’t be any riskier than telling Catalina we failed. Let’s get her.”

  “It’s a go,” Frank says into the phone. He listens, then says, “Yeah, sure, no problem. We’ll do it right away. . . . No, what?” He looks around at the sky and says, “Well, up here it’s just another day in paradise. But what the hell, about the worst it can mean is we might get a little wet, right? . . . Okay, cuz, we’ll be waiting.”

  He puts away the phone and says, “Could take him a few hours to set it up. When he calls again, he wants us to be someplace close to the airport.”

  “What’s he got in mind?” I ask.

  “Didn’t say.” He scans the sky again, then says to Rayo, “By the way, you were right about us getting some rain tonight. That weather system in the Pacific you mentioned is now a tropical storm. It’s clocking winds of fifty-plus and heading for Baja’s south end. Mateo said they expect it to blow through the peninsula and into the Gulf. Then either it’ll keep pushing east into the mainland and beat itself out or it’ll cut north and come our way and probably get stronger as it does. The weather people aren’t giving odds yet.”

  “Just what we need,” Rayo says. “One more thing to liven up our visit to Chubasco’s place.”

  “Not our visit,” Frank says. “You’re not going.”

  “What? What’re you—? The hell I’m not going! How’d you come up with that?”

  “Use your head,” Frank says. “Even if the Kitty girl’s cool enough to hide her recognition of you, as soon as either of those pals of hers saw you, that’s it, we’d be had. As it is, none of the girls know me and Rudy, but Kitty knows you’ve got two male partners. That’s our approach to her.”

  “Look, Frankie,” she says, “it’s not a problem. I can wear a disguise, a wig. I can—”

  “Don’t talk like a dope, it doesn’t suit you. Besides, you can’t disguise that you’re a woman. And when was the last time you saw a gun delivery team with one? And what if Chubasco wants a roll with you? You okay with that? What if he decides to share you with his troops? You willing to pull a train? Like hell. We’d have to fight and they’d kill me and Rudy right off and then gangbang you two or three at a time before snuffing you, too. Given those very real possibilities, cousin, you ain’t going. End of story.”

  She turns to me.

  “He’s right and you know it,” I say.

  She gives me an exasperated look, then throws up her hands and says, “Yeah, I know, I know. So what am I supposed to do while you guys are up there?”

  “We’ll see,” Frank says.

  “I meant to tell you, Stella Lupino was a nice touch,” I say, trying to soothe her a little.

  “Just popped into my head,” she says. “I figured a woman boss might make the kid more agreeable to the whole thing. Not that she needed much coaxing, as you heard.”

  “We also found it interesting that you’ve got a couple of pals who can be real pains in the ass just like her two buddies,” Frank says. “We were trying to guess who you might’ve had in mind.”

  “Oh, yeah? I guess I should’ve given a fuller description and said a couple of dimwit pains in the ass.”

  As we pass by the bar on our way out, we pause to view TV footage of the smoking ruins of some street-front business. The captions identify the place as a Tijuana restaurant destroyed by a rocket attack a half hour ago. Among the known dead are a dozen members of the crime gang Los Fuegos, including its head man.

  They shouldna fucked with the Sinas, the bartender says to the TV.

  We’ve finished a leisurely meal at a restaurant three blocks from the airport and the sun’s almost down to the sea when Mateo calls back. He directs us to hook up in a four-way connection and, as before, withhold all questions until he’s finished his report.

  He’d called a Jaguaro subchief in Los Mochis—about 150 miles east of Loreto, almost directly across the Gulf from it—to whom he’d sent a load of brand-new submachine guns the day before yesterday, and was happy to hear the subchief hadn’t distributed them yet or even opened the crates. Mateo ordered him to ship the load via private charter and without delay to the Loreto airport, where it would be signed for by a Toltec Seguridad agent who would ensure its transfer to a certain vehicle in the terminal parking lot.

  He had then phoned El Puño, Chubasco’s number two man, and claimed to be Diego Soto, chief of the Sangreros gang in Juárez. The deception was necessary, Mateo tells us, because even if we don’t succeed in getting the McCabe girl away from them, the Sinas are going to be infuriated by the attempt and almost certainly figure it for the work of whoever sent us to deliver the guns—and the last thing the Jaguaros need is hostilities with the Sinas. The Diego Soto pretense ensures that if the Sinas go after anybody, it’ll be the Sangreros, which is nothing less than those Juárez fuckheads deserve for playing out of their league.

  He told Puño he’d gotten his phone number from Miguel Soto, his closest cousin, who had been the Sangreros chieftain until he and his brother were shot dead in their home last week by unknown assassins. Puño recalled meeting Miguel Soto at a Sina party in Ensenada not long ago. He and Chubasco had been introduced to him by Tico Ruíz, a subchief from Hermosillo who had since then also been murdered, his throat cut by a cunt who was quickly found and her remains fed to the crabs at a remote estuary. Mateo said he and Miguel had known Tico Ruíz for years and it was good to know his killer had been properly punished. And he was glad Puño remembered Miguel because, according to Miguel, Chubasco had been pleased to learn the Sangreros dealt in guns and said he was always in the market for submachine guns. He had told Miguel that whenever he had some for sale he should contact his segundo before offering them to anybody else, then told Puño to give Miguel his phone number. Puño said he remembered it all very well, and Mateo said good, because if Chubasco was still interested in submachine guns, he might like to know that the Sangreros had just come into possession of two crates of nine-millimeter Heckler & Koch MP5s with folding stocks, plus one crate of ammunition and one of forty-round magazines. They had acquired the shipment from a German connection working out of Central America and got it at such a bargain rate that they could in turn give the Sinas an excellent price and still make a profit. Puño asked how much for the load and Mateo told him and Puño said they had a deal. Mateo said good, but he wouldn’t accept payment for the guns until Chubasco himself had examined them and was fully satisfied. Puño said that wasn’t necessary because he had the chief’s full authority to make weapon purchases for the organization. Mateo said he understood, but he was determined to establish the Sangreros as the Sinas’ most dependable supplier o
f arms, and the only way he would ever sell guns to them was on the condition that their chief inspect them personally and even test-fire as many of them as he wished before any money changed hands. Puño laughed and said all right, what the hell. If the chief didn’t feel like test-firing, he wouldn’t. He asked where the guns were right now. Mateo said in Baja Sur, in Loreto, because for reasons of his own, the German dealer had always found it most expedient to make the deliveries there for any Mexican buyer west and north of Durango City. However, the Sangreros were willing to relay the shipment from Loreto to wherever Chubasco might prefer to receive them. Puño said there was no need for that, Loreto was perfect. The chief was having a party tonight at a place not too far from there, and to get a load of machine guns at the fiesta would only add to his pleasure in the evening. He asked Mateo if he was in Loreto, too, and Mateo said no, he was in Juárez, and because he had been looking forward to meeting Chubasco, he was sorry to say that for reasons of other pressing business he would not be able to deliver the guns himself. But his two best men, Franco Gómez and Rudy Muñez—who at the moment were in Ensenada—could arrive in Loreto this evening sometime around seven, go pick up the guns, then meet with Puño and accompany him and the load to Chubasco. Puño said all right, and the meeting was arranged for eight o’clock at the south end of the Loreto marina parking lot. Mateo told him we’d be driving a black Ford Expedition with a white plastic baseball dangling from the inside rearview. Puño said he’d be in an orange two-door Silverado pickup with MAYA INGENIERIA and a La Paz address printed on both doors. The mention of La Paz shifted their subject to the tropical storm, which—if we hadn’t heard (and we hadn’t)—had given La Paz a beating and flooded most of its streets as it tore through town and then turned north on reentering the sea. It’s holding to a northerly course almost directly along the centerline of the gulf, Mateo informs us, its winds gusting to more than sixty. If it holds to its present speed and heading, it should reach Loreto sometime around midnight. The weather guys say there’s no way to know if it’ll speed up or slow down, get stronger or slacken, turn left or right into a coast, hit Loreto directly or just pass by. When Mateo told Puño that even if the storm just brushes the town, it’ll still give it a hard time, Puño said he didn’t give a damn because by the time the thing reaches Loreto he and the Sangrero gunrunners will be up in the mountains, enjoying the chief’s party.

  As soon as he got off the phone with Puño, Mateo fixed us up with a flight to Loreto via Aerolíneas Vientos, a small charter airline owned by the Mexican Wolfes through front companies. He also arranged for one of his men to collect our Cherokee from the Ensenada airport and return it to Félix García in El Paso. We’re to leave its keys with the attendant at the parking lot gate. Our plane is a small turbojet that can normally make the flight from Ensenada to Loreto in about an hour and forty minutes, but given the headwinds we’re going to meet as we close in on Loreto, the trip will probably take close to two hours, maybe a bit more. Which is still soon enough to make the meeting with Puño. A man named Gallo with a black patch on his left eye will meet us at the Aerolíneas Vientos gate and take us to the Expedition. The shipment for Chubasco will be in it. Gallo will then guide us to the Loreto marina and point out where Puño’s waiting.

  “So,” Mateo says, “there’s your way in. Then all you have to do is find the girl and get out of there with her, maybe with the Sinas on your tail. God alone knows how you might do that, but I look forward to hearing about it.”

  “I appreciate your confidence,” Frank says.

  “Confidence, hell. Big-ass hope is more like it.” He tells us that if we somehow make it back to Loreto with the girl, we not only won’t be able to fly out because of the storm—which is certain to shut down all air traffic—but won’t even be able to make a getaway by road. There are only a few routes out of town, all of them simple to cover, and the main highway can easily be roadblocked at intervals north and south by state cops on the Sina payroll. The only possible escape will be by way of the Gulf, which is why a black thirty-eight-foot speedboat named Espanta and its two-man crew, Disco and Raul, will be waiting for us at the marina—Gallo will show us where. It’s equipped with a self-bailing system and radar with a fifteen-mile range. The cockpit’s big enough to carry four men, but we can jam Rayo and the girl in there, too. The trip across to our landing point is about 120 miles, but even though Espanta’s top speed on a calm surface happens to be 120 miles-per-hour, it sure as hell can’t go even half that fast in a tropical storm, much less a hurricane. Disco’s a top pilot, however, and Raul’s a navigation whiz, and even in a storm they should get us across in about two hours. We’ll be met by a helicopter and ground transport both. If the storm isn’t a real monster by then, the chopper should be able to fly us to an inland ranch with an airstrip and a waiting plane that’ll take us all the way to Matamoros. If it’s too rough for the chopper, we’ll be driven to the ranch.

  “So,” Mateo says. “Questions?”

  “Nope,” Frank says. “You covered the ball park.”

  “Ditto,” I say.

  “Well, I have one,” Mateo says. “Rayo going to the Finca?”

  “No,” Frank says.

  “Good,” Mateo says. He suggests she wait for us at the boat. He’s already told Disco and Raul to expect her. How long the boat should wait for me and Frank to return from the Finca is for us to decide.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Frank says.

  “All right, then, get moving,” Mateo says. “Your pilot’s waiting at the Aerolíneas Vientos counter. Javier Reyes. He’ll be in a 49ers jersey and Giants cap, what he always wears on the job. Dude’s loony for Frisco. Hell, all pilots are loony. Good luck, cousins. Hope we talk again.”

  We take off a little after five. We’ve left our bags in the Cherokee going back to Félix. Besides the pistols under our windbreakers and extra magazines in the pockets, we’re carrying only our Mexican gun permits and Toltec IDs.

  Even though the turbojet is a lot more powerful than the Wolfe Associates’ twin-props, it’s about the same size and its interior design is similar. The cockpit’s open to cabin view and we can see Javier Reyes at the controls. He’s a young, good-looking dude, and while his interest in Rayo was very clear when we met him in the terminal, he’s all business in the air.

  Thirty-five minutes from Loreto the plane begins jouncing and the windows are suddenly streaked with rain. Just some of the storm’s advance activity, Javier says. Minor stuff. It’s moving up the Gulf but still a good way from Loreto. Twenty minutes later the plane’s shaking more vigorously. Javier again apologizes for the turbulence and says we’re almost there. He has a few terse exchanges with the control tower, and then, pitching and rolling, we begin our descent. The windows are blurred with rain. The windshield wipers beat against it with little effect. Javier tussles with the yoke and talks to the tower. He’s flying strictly by instruments and tower instructions. By the time we can vaguely see the runway lights, I estimate we’re well less than a hundred feet from the ground. We touch down with a small bounce, then roll smoothly. It’s 7:11 by my watch. Slightly better time than expected. A truck with yellow roof lights leads us to the apron in front of the Aerolíneas Vientos gate at the far end of the terminal. We say so long to Javier, deplane into the gusting rain, and jog to the gate.

  Gallo’s just inside the entrance and greets each of us with an abrazo. A matching pair of gold canine teeth enhances the piratical impression of his eye patch. Everything’s ready, he says, and leads us to a door marked SOLO PERSONAL AUTORIZADO. It’s attended by a uniformed security guard who exchanges nods with him and lets us pass without a word. As we go down a long dim hallway, Gallo tells us the authorities have announced the airport will cease operations at nine o’clock. We come to an exit door manned by another guard. There’s a large cardboard box on a table next to the door, and from it Gallo takes out hooded raincoats for everybody, including himself. No need to get any wetter than you already are, he says.
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  A small van’s waiting just outside the building. We get in and the driver wheels us away to the parking lot.

  The Expedition’s parked near the exit gate. Gallo tells us it’s got run-flat tires. If punctured, they will retain enough air to keep us moving at up to fifty miles an hour for at least another forty miles. The airbags have been deactivated so they won’t hamper us if we have a minor collision that would set them off. The glass is bullet resistant, the radiator and engine block are shielded both front and sides with steel plates, the chassis’s reinforced, and the iron front bumper could probably knock down a brick wall. The vehicle has a reworked ID and is registered to a nonexistent owner of a false address in the town of Tepic. It can be abandoned anywhere.

  We pull up beside it and all get out. Gallo tells the driver he’ll see him later, and the van leaves. We go around to the rear of the Expedition, the wind yanking at our raincoats, rain blowing off our hoods, and Gallo opens the hatchback to expose the tarp-covered shipment. There’s a flashlight in there and he hands it to Frank, then draws the tarp aside and Frank runs the light over the four crates. The content information is stenciled in German, but it’s easy enough to comprehend which crates hold the guns, which the ammo, which the magazines.

  He tucks the tarp back in place, and Frank turns off the flashlight and leaves it there. Gallo shuts the hatchback and goes to the driver’s side and extracts a plastic baseball from under the seat. It’s attached to a little chain that he hooks to the rearview mirror. He takes a key from his pocket and asks who’s driving and puts it in Frank’s outstretched hand, then takes out another key and gives it to me. Spare’s good to have, he says. I put it into the coin pocket of my jeans. Rayo’s quick to claim the shotgun seat, Gallo and I get in back, and we head out of the airport.