The Bones of Wolfe

by James Carlos Blake

The marina’s only a short drive away. Gallo directs Frank to a small bridge just two blocks from the Gulf. It spans what looks like a churning river gushing out to the sea but which, he tells us, is only a shallow arroyo that’s bone-dry most of the year. It will be running even stronger as the storm closes in. The latest updates say it’s maintaining a northward course through the Gulf and its winds are now in the high sixties. We cross the bridge and cut over to a narrow road that runs along the seawall against which waves are spraying high. Gallo says he hasn’t seen so little traffic in Loreto on a Saturday night since the last tropical storm that blew through here. We pass a plaza on our left where most of the windows have been shuttered or boarded up, though at some places workers are still laboring to install protective covering. The streetlamps are rain-hazed, the trees flailing, blown papers flapping in their branches. Trash cans tumble along the streets.

  There, Gallo says, nodding ahead and to our right at a throng of swaying boat masts in the glow of the marina lights. He has Frank pull over to the curb of the marina parking lot and near the pedestrian entrance to the dock area. He points northward at a brightly lighted billboard advertising a local brewery and tells us it stands at the far end of the marina lot and El Puño is waiting alongside it. Up the street and to our right is a lane that connects to the lot. Pointing in the other direction, he tells us the Espanta’s in a slip right beside the marina’s entry to and from the Gulf. If the power’s out when you get back, he says, just remember the boat’s at the south-side dock and near the exit. He tells Rayo the Espanta crewmen are waiting for her, then wishes us the best of luck and exits the vehicle.

  Hold on, Frank says. He gets out, and he and Gallo move off a short way. Frank does all the talking and Gallo now and then nods. Frank pats him on the arm and Gallo strides off into the shadows.

  “What was that about?” Rayo asks when Frank gets back behind the wheel. She’s taken off her windbreaker and tossed it into the back seat and now puts her raincoat back on.

  “Just wanted him to know how much we appreciate his help.” He checks his watch and tells Rayo there’s no telling how long we’ll be in retrieving Kitty. The way he figures it, if everything goes without a hitch, we should be back sometime around eleven, but if we’re not back by eleven thirty she’s to shove off without us. “We’ll make it back home some other way,” he tells her.

  “Yeah, right,” she says.

  “I’m not joking, girl. The reports say the brunt of the storm will hit here around midnight. By that time you should be close to halfway across the Gulf. You better—”

  “You better get going, what you guys better do.” She gets out and pulls the hood over her head.

  “We’re not there by eleven thirty, you split,” Frank says.

  “You betcha.” She heads off toward the marina.

  I take her place in the front seat. “She wouldn’t go without us.”

  “I know,” Frank says. “I told Gallo to call the speedboat guys and tell them if we’re not there by eleven thirty they’re to ignore whatever she says and cast off. Cuff her to the rail if they have to, at least till they’re out in open water. Now let’s meet our guy.”

  As we approach the orange Silverado next to the billboard, we put our extra ammo magazines under the seats. A large man emerges from the driver’s side and we see the MAYA INGENIERIA sign on the door. He puts his hands in the pockets of his black raincoat and watches us from under a crownless long-billed visor that bares his bald scalp to the rain. We stop near him and abreast of the truck.

  “He didn’t come solo,” I say, nodding at the dark form of a baseball-capped man sitting in the Silverado shotgun seat.

  We get out, and the big man introduces himself simply as “Puño” but makes no offer of a handshake and neither do we.

  Let’s have a look, he says, taking his hands out of his pockets. They’re as large as we’ve heard, the biggest I’ve ever seen. In one of them is a short pry bar.

  We go to the rear of the Expedition, and Frank opens the hatchback and pulls back the tarp and shines the flashlight on the crates. With a few deft moves of the pry bar, Puño unseals the lid of the gun crate, raises it, and takes a look inside, then puts the lid back in place and flaps the tarp back over the crates. Frank cuts off the flashlight and sets it down, and Puño shuts the hatchback.

  You and me go in this one, he says to Frank. Your guy follows with my guy.

  Fine, Frank says. He starts for the Expedition’s passenger side but Puño says, No. You drive. I’ll direct.

  Frank shrugs and goes around and gets behind the wheel.

  You’re driving the truck, Puño says to me. The guy riding with you is Osmayo. Stay close enough for me to see you and don’t use your brights. And hey, Osmayo doesn’t like talk on the road, so don’t irritate him with any. Let’s go.

  Osmayo looks at me as I get in. The light from the billboard lets me see the long hair from under his cap, his wide nose, a pencil mustache. He turns to stare out the windshield. He neither looks at me nor speaks as I crank up the engine and we get moving. Because I always like to know how far I’ve gone from one point to another, I set the trip meter to zero. As the Expedition exits the marina lot, the plastic baseball sails out the passenger window.

  I trail them westward across town to the federal highway, then south and across a larger bridge than the one we crossed earlier over the same arroyo. The rain’s rattling against the truck like gravel. Traffic has thinned to a meager scattering of slow-moving vehicles. I’m keeping within two to three lengths of Frank as he turns off the highway at the San Javier Road that bears west toward the mountains. We follow its gradual curve around to the southwest for a few miles before Frank makes a right onto a rocky trail that takes us into a narrow mountain pass. I’d bet my last dollar that only Sina vehicles ever come through here. It’s an uphill route that becomes increasingly serpentine as it steadily ascends, and we’re soon so deep in stormy darkness that all I can see before us is the Expedition’s blurry taillights and the short portion of trail illuminated by my headlights through the glitter of the rain. We’ve seen our share of tropical storms along the South Texas coast and I’ve driven in most of them, but never on terrain like this. In places, segments of the shoulder on one side or the other have eroded away. The Expedition slows almost to a stop in order to negotiate a very tight turn, and now the road becomes even steeper and narrower and ruttier. Before long we’re passing by sheer mountain walls barely ten feet to our right and by cliff rims about the same distance from us on the left. The curves are following closer on each other, and the Expedition’s taillights go in and out of view. Our headlight beams at times glare against a mountain wall directly ahead but beyond the next sharp bend, and at other times lance out into the empty blackness beyond a cliff before they swing into the curve and brighten the trail again.

  We’ve been driving an hour and covered a hair over twenty-six miles when I round another tight curve and see the Expedition come to a stop with its headlights blazing on the entrance to the Finca not thirty yards ahead. It’s blocked by a barred double gate about a dozen feet high, set between higher stone walls, and manned by a pair of guards in a well-lighted shack just inside the gate and off to its side, a bright pole lamp over the door. I pull up behind the Expedition. Frank hits his brights on and off three times in quick succession—at Puño’s direction, no doubt—and one of the double gates rolls open sideways just enough to permit a guard in a flapping slicker and tied-down cowboy hat to come out, a flashlight in one hand. He goes to the driver’s window and shines the light into it, then waves at the other guard, and the gate opens wider to let us enter.

  The guard in the shack is on a line phone as he watches us go by.

  I follow the Expedition into the compound through the blowing rain and across an expansive courtyard—blurrily lit by tall lampposts and centered with a large stone fountain—toward the largest building in sight. It shows light in every window of both floors. In dimmer view are smaller bui
ldings occupying farther reaches of the compound, but except for us and the gate guards there’s nobody else in sight.

  The big building is fronted by a circular driveway with a porte cochere. About fifty feet beyond the drive are several rows of roofed parking stalls, most of them occupied and mostly with SUVs and pickups. We turn onto the driveway and park under the porte cochere, next to a set of low steps in front of a tall double-door entrance, one of the doors closed against the wind, the other open and projecting a broad shaft of yellow light. We all get out and Puño tells Osmayo to fetch some guys to carry the shipment inside, and Osmayo bounds up the steps and into the building. Through the drumming of the rain there’s an audible resonance of rock music coming from the open door.

  We’ll join that party in a little while, says Puño. Right now I need to know if you guys are armed.

  Yes, Frank says.

  I’ll hold them till you leave.

  Your place, your rules, Frank says, and we hand him our pistols.

  Good weapon, Puño says, looking the Berettas over. They seem much smaller in his hands, and I can’t help thinking that the trigger guard would be such a tight fit for his finger he’d run the risk of an accidental discharge if he tried to stick it in there. He puts the guns into his raincoat pockets, and, as if he’d heard my thoughts, he draws his pistol from under his arm and holds it in the light for us to see. It’s a Sig Sauer 226 with an extra-large trigger guard and an oversized butt that, in addition to accommodating Puño’s hand, looks like it can take a double-stack magazine of at least forty rounds.

  Nice custom work, Frank says.

  Guy in Mazatlán did it, Puño says. Best gunsmith on the coast.

  He returns the Sig to its holster and tells Frank to take off his raincoat and put his arms out and spread his legs. Frank stares at him a moment, then does it, and Puño gives him a quick, efficient frisk.

  Trust but verify, eh? Frank says.

  Puño shrugs and says, You know how it is. He turns to me and we repeat the process.

  Osmayo comes back with eight men who make quick work of unloading the shipment, two men to a crate, then he drives off in the Expedition. As we go up the steps with Puño, the shipment carriers behind us, I note the general area of the parking stalls where Osmayo’s parking the vehicle. So does Frank. Always know where your weapons and your wheels are. Basic rule.

  We cross a spacious foyer, passing by a wide stairway to the second floor and by the open doors of a large room where all the good-time racket is coming from. I catch a glimpse of a busy dance floor in there before we turn off into a hallway, the first of a half dozen corridors we pass through until we come to one that ends at a closed door.

  Puño opens it and we follow him into an anteroom of sorts. There’s another door directly ahead, padded benches and hat stands along the walls, a table in the center where a red-haired guy wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt is sitting with a magazine. He hops to his feet, grinning broadly at Puño, and says, About goddamn time! We thought the storm mighta blown you away.

  Never, Puño says as they clasp forearms in a Roman handshake. He opens the other door and tells the carriers to take the crates in and set them on table number one. He removes his raincoat and hangs it on a hat stand and indicates for us to do the same, then introduces the redhead to us as Rojo Romero, the resident chief of Finca de Plata when Chubasco and Puño aren’t here. Romero gives us a nod and says he’s glad to know us. Then we all go into the next room.

  It’s a very much larger one, comprising a shooting range of four parallel firing lanes about a hundred feet from a target wall at the other end of the room. The shipment crates, their lids removed, are on a sturdy waist-high table of unpainted wood against the wall to our left. An adjoining table holds a variety of gun-cleaning tools, solvents, and cloths; a metal tray full of individual pairs of earplugs in little ziplock bags; a cardboard box full of shooter earmuffs; and one containing chest-strap magazine pouches.

  Puño dismisses the carriers and goes to a wall phone at the far end of the maintenance table. While he speaks into it in a muted voice and Romero busies himself loading one of the curved forty-round magazines, Frank and I take in the room. Unlike most ranges I’ve seen, this one has no individual shooting stalls along the firing line, just waist-high stands topped by small tables on which to lay a firearm. At the end of each lane, a white torso-silhouette target with a red heart about the size of an actual human heart in the center is attached to a frame connected to an electrically operated ceiling rail. By way of a button on the table stand, the shooter can retrieve the target or adjust its distance from the firing line. As at many indoor ranges, the walls and ceiling are padded to absorb the concussive blasts of gunfire and reduce the risk of hearing damage. On this side of the room are a few tables with chairs. Along the right-side wall is a small, untended bar lined with unoccupied stools.

  Puño ends his call and begins helping Romero at loading magazines and putting them into ammo pouches. A minute later, the outer room door opens and El Chubasco walks in.

  There’s no mistaking him. Not after seeing his face in so many newspaper and TV pictures. He’s said to be in his late thirties or early forties. Looks in good shape. Short and thick-shouldered, pale-complexioned, bushy mustache, thick black hair. He’s wearing running shoes, jeans, a blue-and-white baseball T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and a pistol in a harness shoulder holster. With him is a thin, sharp-faced man in a black tracksuit and black baseball cap. He, too, carries a pistol in a shoulder rig, plus a small brown bag slung on a strap.

  Chubasco raises a hand in greeting to Puño and Romero; comes over to me and Frank, taking us in with a quick, intense once-over; and smiles wide. Welcome to Finca de Plata, my friends, he says as we shake hands. I am Jaime Montón. You can call me Chuy. Most of my friends do. As you know, we’re having a little party tonight, and as soon as we finish our business here, we’ll join it. Also, you will of course stay here tonight as my guests. The storm is terrible and may get worse. No need to go back to town until tomorrow.

  We introduce ourselves, say it’s an honor to meet him, and thank him for his hospitality. I now see his pistol’s a nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power. Good gun. The man in the tracksuit has closed the door of the outer room and positioned himself beside it. His weapon, too, is a Browning.

  I was sorry to hear of the killing of Miguel Soto, Chubasco says. I met him only once, but I liked him. As you may know, Puño has spoken on the phone with Miguel’s cousin Diego. He tells me he seems a capable replacement as the Sangrero chief.

  He is, Frank says. Miguel and Diego grew up together and were close. Both good men, good leaders.

  Glad to hear it. And glad Miguel told Diego of my interest in automatic weapons. Also, I must say that his refusal to accept payment until I have personally examined the guns is an unusual courtesy.

  That’s how he is, Frank says. Won’t accept a penny until he knows the chief is happy with the shipment.

  Chubasco goes to the crate of MP5s and extracts one. With evident familiarity he flicks open the stock and then locks back the charging handle. Puño hands him a loaded magazine and he snaps it into the gun, then takes a set of earmuffs from the box and gestures for Frank and me to do likewise and to come with him.

  We go to the nearest firing lane and put on the muffs. He sets the selective-fire switch on semiautomatic, slap-releases the locking handle to insert a round in the chamber, puts the stock to his shoulder, and with five fast trigger pulls delivers five rounds into the target. He presses a button on the shooting table and the retrieval rail brings the target to us. It has five small holes in the heart.

  I give him a thumbs-up and Frank nods in agreement. Chubasco smiles and takes the target off the frame and replaces it with a fresh one from a stack next to the table stand. He presses the rail button and the target hums off to the end of the lane. He thumbs the selector switch and this time triggers a sequence of four three-round bursts through the target heart without
a miss. He then sets the switch on full automatic and, in a single long burst, fires the twenty-three remaining rounds into the target. He brings it back to the firing line and there are no holes outside the ragged red-edged cavity where the heart had been.

  We all remove our earmuffs and he says, Beautiful weapon. One of my favorites.

  You handle it well, I say.

  He looks at our empty holsters. Puño take your guns?

  He did, Frank says.

  Doing his job, Chubasco says. Come on.

  We go over to the shipment table and he tells Puño to give back our pistols. Puño goes out to the anteroom, makes a quick return, and holds the guns out to us, not knowing which belongs to whom. I know mine by a scratch behind the front sight. Frank and I check the chambers for a seated round and then eject the magazines and hand-test their weight to be sure they hold a full load, then reinsert them and holster the guns.

  Very wise, Chubasco says. Never trust a loaded gun that’s been out of your sight to still be loaded the next time you pick it up.

  He tells Puño and Romero to go ahead to the party and we’ll join them in a minute. Then calls to the skeletal man, Hueso!

  He comes over, and Chubasco says, Give it to them and go.

  The man takes the bag off his shoulder and holds it in front of him for either of us to accept. Frank takes it and the man departs. Frank unzips it, has a look inside, then zips it closed and hangs it across his chest.

  Don’t you want to count it? Chubasco says.

  Would you cheat us and lose a reliable source of machine guns?

  More wisdom, Chubasco says with a laugh. Assure Diego Soto that I’m always in the market for automatic weapons and I never cheat a seller.

  We’ll tell him.

  All right, then, party time. And, oh yes . . . I should tell you that probably every man at the party will be armed. I have always permitted weapons at parties because you never know when another gang or the police or the military, some fucking enemy, might attempt to raid us, and we would not want to be unarmed if that happened. But at a party last year a couple of the boys got into a drunken argument at the bar and shot each other several times before they both dropped dead. A miracle nobody else was hurt. So I gave an order that nobody was ever again to pull out a gun at a party for any reason except defense against raiders. If anybody did, I myself would shoot him. I am pleased to say that, ever since then, only once has that order been violated.