“He’s…been happier. Things are fucked up down south. You know someone took out El Tiburón a couple days ago, right?”
That was Nestor, Tavo’s brother and the Pacifico Norte capo. For a few moments, Luis forgot about Tavo’s dragon’s den. “Who did it? Who’s running the Cartel?”
“Nobody knows who did it yet,” Ray said. An especially pretty waitress sauntered by, lots of hip sway, and winked at Ray. “Who’s running the Cartel? Don’t know yet, but maybe…” He nodded toward Tavo’s door.
Great, Luis thought. The new capo wants to yell at me.
The door swung open. Ray nudged Luis. “Looks like it’s time.”
The blond gabacho coming out was a hand shorter than Luis, wearing a white polo with the triangle-in-a-triangle logo of the company that owned the contract cops that passed for Santa Ana PD. He nodded to them as he headed for the bar. “That time of the month,” Ray said under his breath.
That morning’s McGinley visitation replayed in Luis’ head. Had that cracker been trying to shake him down? The Feds were paid more than the average rent-a-cop—which wasn’t saying much—but like everyone else, they got no retirement.
Tavo’s office had been a private dining room back when La Paloma was a restaurant. A big wood slab of a table still filled the middle, circled by twelve wooden ladder-back chairs. Tavo sat at the far end with his slate. “Gentlemen,” he said in Spanish, “please come in.”
Luis first met Octavio Villalobos almost twelve years before, when Tavo had recruited him to coyote for the Cartel. He’d expected the man who ran the Cartel’s business in the Southwest to be a cliché narco boss from the music vids—lots of gangsta bling, a shiny suit and $4000 cowboy boots. What he found instead was a guy who looked and dressed like a successful accountant, with conservative hair and quiet office clothes and a high-end Chinese smartwatch.
They stopped two chairs back from the table’s end, Luis on one side, Ray on the other. Luis said, “Hola, patrón.”
“Buenas noches, Luis. You look well. Mirabel is well too, I expect?”
“Her job’s hard, but she’s okay.”
“And Ignacio? Your son is still in your Marine Corps?”
That first time here, Luis had also expected a lot of swearing and macho bullshit. Tavo never swore, and he hated nicknames.
“Yeah. He’s deployed, but he’s doing good.”
Tavo nodded. “Excellent.” He motioned toward Ray. “Ramiro tells me you won’t escort this Moro family to the south. Is that so?”
Just what Luis was afraid of. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. “Yes, patrón.”
Tavo gave him a slow scan. While most of him resembled a bureaucrat, his eyes were hard and always a little distant. “You’ve recovered from your incident?”
“Mostly. I still feel it sometimes.” The dreams were still there, in the shadows.
“Of course.” Tavo leaned forward, steepled his fingers and put them to his lips. “I appreciate that your experience has made you…reluctant. But this is a special situation, and I can pay you well for your efforts. Would $50,000 ease your concerns at all?”
Fifty grand? He’d never had that big a payoff before. “What’s so special about these people?”
“The woman’s an agent in your FBI. She wishes to defect.”
That took a moment to sink in. When it did, every alarm in Luis’ head started blasting. “What? That’s crazy! How do you know this isn’t a trap? I—”
“We’ve verified her story,” Tavo said. His voice had turned a few degrees frostier. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the table. “Please give me the courtesy of believing we aren’t fools. I respect your experience and discretion, Luis. That’s why of all the men I have available, I ask you to do this.”
Luis glanced to Ray, who arched an eyebrow as if to say, well?
Fifty grand. Not nearly enough to get their heads above water, but damn good. He could pay a couple debts, maybe clean off one of the credit cards. He might even be able to get his parents in to see doctors for the first time in a few years, the way a good son should.
Or he might get himself killed.
Or Bel might kill him for breaking the promise he’d made to her after his last run. He heard her words at his hospital bedside: I don’t want that money. I want you alive, with me.
“I’m retired,” he finally said. “I’m too old and slow to be running around out there anymore. My family depends on me. If anything happens to me, it’s over for them, too.”
Tavo’s eyes became completely opaque, like the black glass on the cars in Luis’ shop. “I don’t remember giving you permission to retire.”
Permission? “I was a contractor,” he told Tavo, picking his words carefully. “That was our deal. I take only the work I want.”
“That changed when we provided your medical care after your incident, and the support while you recovered.” Tavo swept his slate screen with the edge of his hand. “Do you know how much we invested in you?” He poked at the slate. “Three hundred ninety thousand dollars. I have an account here if you’d like to review it. Hospitals are so expensive in this country.”
Luis squashed the anger trying to climb up his throat. “I was working for you when I was shot,” he said as evenly as his heart would let him. “I thought the deal was, if I was hurt or arrested, the Cartel would take care of me.” He stared into Tavo’s stony eyes and remembered the nickname the Nortes had for (but never used around) him: La Almádena. Sledgehammer. Ray told him it was Tavo’s favorite weapon.
“And so we did.” Tavo leaned forward, steepled his fingers again, touched them to his lips. “We made this investment in good faith with the understanding you’d rejoin us once you recovered. You’ve been on extended leave as far as we’re concerned. And now you say you’ve recovered. It delights me to hear this. So now it’s time to come back to work.”
Bel would want Luis to tell him to go to hell. She’d tell him herself, damn the blowback. But Bel wasn’t here, just the Sledgehammer. “How do I retire?”
“Ah.” Tavo nodded sadly. “Luis, if you truly wish to retire, of course you can. All you have to do is repay what you owe to us.”
Almost four hundred grand. More money than he’d get for running the shop over the next twelve years. Dios mío.
“This debt is now two years old, you understand. We expect all our loans to be repaid promptly. Interest will be involved as well, it always is.” Tavo narrowed his eyes a fraction, just enough to squeeze the last warmth out of them. “Do I need to continue?”
Sweat soaked the back of Luis’ shirt while Tavo stared at him for what seemed like an hour. Go back to dragging strays over the border, or pay off an impossible debt. What kind of choice was this?
Could he escape with Bel? Go over the border, disappear someplace the Cartel would never find them? Was there such a place?
Tavo asked, “Do you remember Hernando Vega? I believe he used to be your logistics contact, yes? Well, he won’t be your contact anymore. This is why.” He held up his slate.
The screen filled with a picture of a man sprawled on bloody asphalt, naked and riddled with more bullet holes than Luis could ever count. Luis cringed, turned his head away.
“He owed money to us—less than you do—and thought he could run away from his obligation. We found him in Manila. This picture was taken there. Would you like to see what we did to his wife?”
Luis shook his head, nauseated.
Tavo switched off the slate and laid it carefully on the table. “It isn’t the money, you understand. It’s the principle. A debt is a matter of honor. Everyone must pay their debts. One way or another.”
It was like Tavo had read Luis’ mind. His life, Bel’s life, had just become worthless. Ray was no help; he stood staring at the floor, as if he was trying to drill through it and disappear.
“I need to talk to Bel. I can’t just ignore her.” Brave man, hide behind your wife.
Tavo purse
d his lips. “No, that would be wrong.” He leaned back. “Talk to your wife. Tonight. Tell Ramiro of your decision tomorrow morning. Make the right decision, Luis.”
7
Weather.com meteorologists predict the severe drought conditions that have plagued the western half of the United States for the past five years are likely to continue through 2032… another consequence of accelerating climate change, like 2031’s record 32 named Atlantic tropical storms… Record-low snowpack in the Rockies and Sierra Nevada will lead to more severe water shortages and higher rates throughout the West and Southwest…
— “2032 Drought Forecast,” Weather.com
FRIDAY, 30 APRIL
Luis drove north from La Paloma on city streets to avoid the tolls on the 55. He dodged police roadblocks and ID checks, his head crammed with angry, frightened voices, most of them his own.
It was never supposed to come to this.
Ray had hooked him up with Tavo. He’d be a contractor, they’d told him, free to take runs as he chose, stop when he wanted. After months of guiding escaping Muslims into Mexico on his own, Luis had been glad for the help: more money, more logistical support. Even Bel had approved back then. “We can’t just let those poor people get locked up for nothing,” she’d said.
He couldn’t afford to turn down anything at first. His Public Works job had vanished when the Orange County government went private. In those first couple of years with the Cartel, he ran hundreds of Muslims over the border, sometimes thirty or more at a time.
The years passed, the groups and fees got smaller, the going harder. Then an old buddy from Public Works told him about the job opening at Coast Conversions, put in a word for him. Luis started turning down runs. The Cartel accepted his refusals without much grace, but accepted them nonetheless.
Then he ended up half-dead in that hospital in Sierra Vista with no way to pay the bill. When Ray arrived to tell him it was handled, Luis had been in no condition to ask about the terms. He thought it was just the Cartel taking care of its people the way it always did. He’d seen them pension off sicarios who’d been shot on the job and figured that was their plan for him. The Cartel had made a lot of money off his work, after all.
Now the bill had come due.
Luis’ neighborhood in south Orange wasn’t a combat zone yet; not all the houses had bars on the windows or reinforced doors. Dusty cars lined the street or squatted on the driveways, most of them small, none less than fifteen years old. There’d be no place for them all if several weren’t at the second job or the night shift. Dogs bayed from behind iron gates. No streetlights; like most everywhere else, they’d been gutted by scrappers after their copper wire.
Strips of light glowed along the edges of the garage doors. Most families on the block had someone living in their garages, relatives or friends or strangers who could pay rent. The “garage granny” was so common, she was a stock character on web shows. The Fuentes a couple doors down had a mini-sweatshop going 24/7. Luis’ garage was dark. Rilie, Christa’s old high-school friend, was already gone to her twelve-hour night shift in a call center, helping rich Indians with their cell phones.
A nearby pair of Neighborhood Watch busybodies with AR-15s slung across their backs gave his truck the evil eye as he pulled into his driveway next to Bel’s little blue econobox. When Luis got out, they sniffed and turned back to photographing the license plates of the cars parked along the street.
The lingering aroma of his mother’s Mexican stir-fry woke up his stomach when he stepped into his clean-but-not-neat 1970s rancher. Graciela sat straight at the little IKEA table at the living room’s far end, nursing her homemade post-dinner café de olla. Bel clattered dishes in the kitchen.
His mother squinted at him through glasses that hadn’t been the right prescription for at least two years. “Hola, Lucho. I saved dinner for you,” she said in Spanish. Graciela still wore her work clothes. It never stopped pissing him off that at her age, she had to spend twelve hours a day standing at a register for Walmart.
“Gracias, Mama. ¿Donde Papi?”
“En nuestra sala. He was dizzy, so he went to lie down.” That was happening more often. Not something Luis could process even if he wanted to.
Bel’s voice chimed out of the kitchen. “Lucho? We need to talk.” He could hardly hear her over the clattering vent fan.
Yes, we do. “In a minute.”
In the bedroom, he emptied his pockets into his nightstand, took off his gun, washed his face and hands. Supplies Bel had swiped from the hospital for her medical bag splashed across the foot of the bed. Through the open door he could hear the tail end of tonight’s round of sniping between the two most important women in his life.
“Shouldn’t you put on some clothes?” Graciela, in Spanish.
“Can’t you stop burning dinner?” Bel, in English.
He tuned out their snapping and stopped at the dresser. Pictures of the kids dissolved one into another in the black vidframe. He cradled it in his hands, tapped the screen to freeze a shot of Christa in a long dress for the junior prom, the last good picture of her they had. Luis missed her smile. Four years tomorrow. Bel would be a mess tomorrow night; she still blamed herself.
You’re stalling.
Bel stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the dinner pots and dishes. She’d changed from scrubs into faded denim shorts and a thin tank top that wasn’t a color anymore. Luis leaned against the doorjamb and watched. Endless hours a day on her feet—walking, bending, lifting, squatting—worked better than any gym. She still had a great pair of legs. She had a great pair of pretty much everything. Her strong jaw and forehead and proud nose and generous mouth shouldn’t add up to pretty, but they did. And how. After twenty-three years, he still loved to just look at her. How’d I luck out?
She ignored his inspection, bore down hard on something stubborn in a big iron frying pan. Luis ambled to her side, put an arm around her waist and kissed her temple. Her brutally short black hair smelled like the hospital. “How was your day?”
“The usual. Long and ugly and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” He sighed, hugged her against his side. She kept washing up.
Bel stacked the last glass in the dish drainer, wiped her hands, then steered Luis out the sliding door onto the cracked concrete patio. It was July hot in April and the smoky tang from the fire in the hills half-masked the smog’s chemical smell. The evening’s gun battles crackled from the other side of the 55. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
“Let me guess. A guy from ICE showed up? McGinley?”
“Uh-huh. Who is he? I haven’t seen him before.”
“Some turd they brought in from outside. It’s about that breakout at the Barstow camp.”
She shook her head and paced out onto the lawn. Grass fried beige by nineteen rainless months crunched under her flip-flops. “He asked me where you’ve been for the past two weeks.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth, that you’ve been here with us.” She crossed her arms and turned to face him. “What’ve you done, Lucho? Why is he asking about you?”
“I haven’t done anything.” Yet.
Bel raised an eyebrow. “Why weren’t you home for dinner?”
Luis avoided her glare. “I gotta tell you something. You won’t like it.”
He’s been fired. He’s having an affair. He has cancer. He’s leaving. Nothing like working in an ED to help gin up worst-case scenarios. All of Bel’s alarms started screaming. “Lucho…”
“I have to go back to work for the Cartel.” It came out all in a rush.
“You what?”
He plowed through how he owed those gangsters some ridiculous amount of money for keeping him from dying after he was shot. Her mind went on broil. Those bastards! They’d set him up, they’d broken their promise, his so-called friend had screwed them both and—
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Sorry? She spun in a little circle,
not sure which way to look. Everything on Lucho’s face was tight—his eyes, his lips, his jaw—and she figured he was as mad as she was getting. “How much again?”
“Almost four hundred grand.”
She gasped. “Four years at UCLA for Nacho when he comes back.”
“Almost, yeah.”
“Gene therapy for Alvaro.”
“Jesus, I get it, all right?” He gulped down his irritation. “This job pays fifty.”
“Wonderful.” She massaged her eyes with her fingertips for a moment, trying to hold back the jumble of angry words fighting to get out of her mouth. The last thing they needed was for both of them to go kinetic. “How…oh, God…this’ll bury us! I’m juggling money all the time, just to pay the bills we have now. We can’t—”
“I know. I never saw it coming.”
“How did this happen? They weren’t supposed to own you.”
“That changed when they paid my hospital bill.”
“Nice of them to tell you. What if something happens to you? Do I owe them the money? Do I have to work for them? Does Nacho?”
He raised his hands to hold her off. “No, nothing like that. Nothing’s going to happen to me. And if it does, Ray’ll work it out.”
“Like he did for you?”
“I don’t think he knew this was going to happen.”
“Well, now he does. Did he try to help?”
Lucho looked away, his jaw set.
“That’s what I thought. So what are you going to do about this? How are you going to fix this?”
“I told you already. I have to do this job for them.”
“Again? The last time almost killed you! It almost killed me. And once you start again, how does it stop? I’ve already lost a daughter, isn’t that enough?”
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