Well, thanks a bunch, Warren. What’s got you so nervous?
Next, Art phones the State Department’s Drug Assist Desk, a title so pungent with irony it makes him want to weep, because they tell him in polite bureaucratese to please go fuck himself.
Next Art calls the CIA Liaison Desk, puts in his request and gets a call back that same afternoon. What he doesn’t expect is a call back from John Hobbs.
Himself.
Back in the day, Hobbs was the head of Operation Phoenix. Art had briefed him a few times. Hobbs had even offered him a job after his year in-country, but by that time the DEA had beckoned and Art went.
Now Hobbs is the CIA’s station chief for Central America.
Makes sense to me, Art thinks. A cold warrior goes where there’s a cold war.
They make small talk for a few minutes (How are Althea and the kids? How do you like Guadalajara?), then Hobbs asks, “What can we do to be of assistance, Arthur?”
“I was wondering if you could help me get a handle on an airfreight company called SETCO,” Art says. “It’s owned by Ramón Mette.”
“Yes, my people passed along your request,” Hobbs says. “That has to be a negative, I’m afraid.”
“A negative.”
“Yes,” Hobbs says. “A no.”
Yes, we have no bananas, Art thinks. We have no bananas today.
Hobbs continues, “We don’t have anything on SETCO.”
“Well, thanks for giving me the call.”
Then Hobbs asks, “What have you got going on down there, Arthur?”
“I’m just getting some radar pings,” Art lies, “that SETCO might be moving some marijuana around.”
“Marijuana.”
“Sure,” Art says. “That’s about all that’s left in Mexico these days.”
“Well, good luck with that, Arthur,” Hobbs says. “Sorry we couldn’t be of any help.”
“I appreciate the effort,” Art says.
He hangs up wondering why the Company’s chief of Latin American operations would take time out from his busy day of trying to overthrow the Sandinistas to call him personally and lie to him.
Nobody wants to talk about SETCO, Art thinks, not my colleagues in the DEA, not the State Department, not even CIA.
The whole inter-agency alphabet soup just spells out YOYO.
You’re On Your Own.
Ernie reports pretty much the same thing.
You put the name Barrera out to any of the usual sources and they clam up. Even the most loquacious snitches develop a case of lockjaw. Barrera’s one of the most prominent businessmen in town, except no one ever heard of him.
So drop it, Art tells himself. This is your chance.
Can’t.
Why not?
Just can’t.
At least be honest.
Okay. Maybe because I just can’t let him win. Maybe because I owe him a beating. Yeah, except he’s beating you. And he’s not even showing up. You can’t lay a glove on him.
It’s true—they can’t get near Tío.
Then the damnedest thing happens.
Tío comes to them.
Colonel Vega, the ranking federale in Jalisco and the man whom Art is supposed to be liaising with, comes into Art’s office, sits down and says sadly, “Señor Keller, I will be frank. I have come here to ask you politely but firmly—please cease your harassment of Don Miguel Ángel Barrera.”
He and Art stare at each other, then Art says, “As much as I’d like to help you, Colonel, this office isn’t conducting an investigation of Señor Barrera. Not that I know about, anyway.”
He yells out into the main office, “Shag, are you investigating Señor Barrera?”
“No, sir.”
“Ernie?”
“No.”
Art raises his arms in a shrug.
“Señor Keller,” Vega says, glancing out the door at Ernie, “your man is tossing Don Miguel’s name about in a very irresponsible fashion. Señor Barrera is a respected businessman with many friends in government.”
“And, apparently, in the Municipal Judicial Federal Police.”
“You’re Mexican, aren’t you?” Vega asks.
“I’m American.” But where are you going with this?
“But you speak Spanish?”
Art nods.
“Then you’re familiar with the word intocable,” Vega says, getting up to leave. “Señor Keller, Don Miguel is intocable.”
Untouchable.
With that concept imparted, Vega leaves.
Ernie and Shag come into Art’s office. Shag starts to speak, but Art signals for him to shut up and gestures for them all to go outside. They follow him for about a block before he says, “How did Vega know we’re running an op on Barrera?”
Back inside, it takes them just a few minutes to find the little mike under Art’s desk. Ernie goes to rip it out but Art grabs his wrist and stops him. “I could use a beer,” Art says. “How about you guys?”
They go to a bar downtown.
“That’s beautiful,” Ernie says. “In the States, the cops bug the bad guys. Here, the bad guys bug the cops.”
Shag shakes his head. “So they know everything we know.”
Well, Art thinks, they know we suspect Tío is M-1. They know that we’ve tracked the plane to Núñez and Mette. And they know we can’t get shit after that. So what’s making them nervous? Why send in Vega to shut down an investigation that’s going nowhere?
And why now?
“Okay,” Art says. “We’ll broadcast to them. Let them think they’ve backed us off. You guys stand down for a while.”
“What are you going to do, boss?”
Me? I’m going to touch the untouchable.
Back in the office, he regretfully tells Ernie and Shag that they’re going to have to shut down the Barrera investigation. Then he goes to a phone booth and calls Althea. “I’m not going to make it home for dinner.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Kiss the kids good night for me.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Every man has a weakness, Art thinks, a secret that could drag him down. I should know. I know mine, but what’s yours, Tío?
Art doesn’t make it home that night, or the next five.
I’m like an alcoholic, Art thinks. He’s heard reformed drunks talk about how they would drive to the liquor store, all the time swearing they weren’t going to go, then go in swearing they weren’t going to buy, then buy swearing they weren’t going to drink the booze they’d just bought.
Then they’d drink it.
I’m that guy, Art thinks, drawn toward Tío like a drunk to the bottle.
So instead of going home at night he sits in his car on the broad boulevard, parked a block and a half from Tío’s car dealership, and watches the office through the rearview mirror. Tío must be selling a lot of cars, because he’s there until eight or eight-thirty in the evening, and then he gets into his car and drives home. Art sits at the bottom of his road, the only way in or out of the housing development, until midnight or one, but Tío doesn’t come out.
Finally, on the sixth night, Art gets lucky.
Tío leaves the office at six-thirty and drives not to the suburbs but back downtown. Art stays back in the rush-hour traffic but manages to stay with the Mercedes as it drives through the Centro Histórico and pulls up beside a tapas restaurant.
Three federales, two Jalisco state policemen and a couple of guys that look like DFS agents are on guard outside, and the sign on the restaurant door reads CERRADO—closed. One of the federales opens Tío’s door. Tío gets out and the federale drives the Mercedes away like a parking valet. A Jalisco state cop opens the closed restaurant door and Tío walks in. Another Jalisco cop waves to Art to keep his car moving.
Art rolls his window down. “I want to grab a bite.”
“Private party.”
Yeah, I guess, Art thinks.
/> He parks the car two blocks away, takes his Nikon camera with the 70-300 lens and sticks it under his coat. He crosses the street and walks half a block up, then takes a left into the alley and walks until he figures he’s at the back of the building across the street from the restaurant, then hops the fire-escape ladder and pulls it down. He climbs up the metal ladder, bolted to the bricks, until he makes it the three stories up to the roof.
DEA RACs aren’t supposed to be doing this kind of work—they’re supposed to be office creatures, liaising with their Mexican counterparts. But seeing as how my Mexican counterparts are across the street guarding my target, Art thinks, the liaison thing isn’t going to work out.
He ducks and crosses the roof, then lies down behind the low parapet that edges the building. Surveillance work is hell on the dry-cleaning bill, he thinks as he stretches out on the dirty roof, rests the lens on the parapet and focuses on the restaurant. And you can’t turn it in on your expense account, either.
He settles down to wait but he doesn’t have to wait long before a parade of cars pulls up alongside Talavera’s tapas place. The drill is the same—the Jalisco police stand guard while the federales play valet, and a major player in the Mexican drug trade gets out and goes into the restaurant.
It’s like a Hollywood opening for drug stars.
García Abrego, head of the Gulf cartel, gets out of his Mercedes. The older man looks distinguished with his silver hair, trim mustache and businessman’s gray suit. Güero Méndez, Baja cartel, looks like the narco-cowboy he is. His blond hair—hence the nickname Güero, “Blondie”—hangs long under his white cowboy hat. He wears a black silk shirt, open to the waist, black silk pants and black cowboy boots with pointed toes capped with silver. Chalino Guzmán looks more like the peasant he is in an ill-fitting old suit jacket, mismatched pants and green boots.
Jesus, Art thinks, it’s a fucking Apalachin meeting, except these guys don’t look too worried about police interference. It would be like the godfathers of the Cimino, Genovese and Colombo families getting together for a sit-down guarded by the FBI. Except if this was the Sicilian Mafia, I’d never get this close. But these guys are complacent. They think they’re safe.
And they’re probably not wrong.
What’s curious, though, Art wonders, is, Why this restaurant? Tío owns half a dozen places in Guadalajara, but Talavera’s isn’t one of them. Why wouldn’t he hold this summit meeting in one of his own joints?
But I guess this dispels any doubt about Tío being M-1.
The traffic stops out front and Art settles in for the long wait. There is no such thing as a quick Mexican dinner, and these boys probably have an agenda. Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to have a microphone in there.
He pulls a Kit Kat bar out of his pants pocket, unwraps it, breaks off two sections and puts the rest back, not knowing when he’ll get a chance to grab more food. Then he rolls onto his back, crosses his arms over his chest for warmth and takes a nap, bagging a couple of hours of uneasy sleep before car doors and voices wake him up.
Showtime.
He rolls back over and sees them all coming out on the sidewalk. If there’s no such thing as a Federación, he thinks, they’re doing a damn good imitation of one. They’re absolutely brazen, all standing out on the sidewalk, laughing, shaking hands and lighting each other’s Cuban cigars as they wait for the federale valets to bring their cars around.
Shit, Art thinks, you can practically smell the smoke and the testosterone overload.
The atmosphere changes suddenly when the girl comes out.
She’s stunning, Art thinks. A young Liz Taylor, but with olive skin and black eyes. And long lashes, which she’s batting at all the men while an older man who has to be her father stands in the doorway, smiling nervously and waving adiós to the gomeros.
But they’re not leaving.
Güero Méndez is all over the girl. He even takes off his cowboy hat, Art notices. Maybe not your best move, Güero, at least until you wash your hair. But Güero bows—actually bows—sweeps his hat along the sidewalk and smiles up at the girl.
His silver teeth flash in the streetlights.
Yeah, Güero, that’ll get her, Art thinks.
Tío rescues the girl. Comes over, puts an almost paternal arm around Güero’s shoulders and smoothly walks him back toward his car, which has just pulled up. They hug and do their good-bye thing, and Güero looks over Tío’s shoulder at the girl before he gets into his car.
Must be true love, Art thinks. Or at least true lust.
Then Abrego leaves, with a dignified handshake instead of an embrace, and Art watches as Tío walks back to the girl, bends over, and kisses her hand.
Latin chivalry? Art wonders.
Or . . .
No . . .
But Art eats lunch at Talavera’s the next day.
The girl’s name is Pilar, and sure enough, she’s Talavera’s daughter.
She sits in a booth in the back, pretending to study a textbook, every now and again performing a self-conscious turn of the hip as she looks up from under those long lashes to see who might be checking her out.
Every guy in the place, Art thinks.
She doesn’t look fifteen except for a remaining trace of baby fat and the perfected adolescent pout on her precociously full lips. And even though it makes him feel a little like a child molester, Art can’t help but notice that she has a figure that is definitely very post-adolescent. The only thing that tells Art she’s fifteen is the ongoing argument she’s having with her mother, who sits down in the booth and loudly reminds her several times that she’s only fifteen.
And Papa glances up anxiously every time the door opens. The hell is he so nervous about? Art wonders.
Then he finds out.
Tío walks through the door.
Art has his back to the door and Tío walks right past him. Doesn’t even notice his long-lost nephew, Art thinks, he’s so focused on the girl. And he has flowers in his hand—honest to God, he has flowers clutched in his long, thin fingers—and honest to God has a box of candy under his other arm.
Tío has come courting.
Now Art gets why Talavera’s so freaked out. He knows that Miguel Ángel Barrera is accustomed to the droit de seigneur of rural Sinaloa, in which girls her age and younger are routinely deflowered by the dominant gomeros.
And that’s their concern. That this powerful man, this married man, is going to turn their precious, beautiful, virginal daughter into his segundera, his mistress. To use her and then throw her aside, her reputation ruined, her chances for a good marriage destroyed.
And there’s not a goddamn thing they can do about it.
Tío won’t rape the girl, Art knows. He won’t take her by force. That might happen up in the hills of Sinaloa, but it won’t happen here. But if she accepts him, if she goes with him willingly, the parents are helpless. And what fifteen-year-old’s head wouldn’t be turned by attention from a rich and powerful man? This kid isn’t stupid—she knows it’s flowers and candy now, but it could be jewelry and clothes, trips and vacations. She’s at the base of an arc, but she can’t see the downside from where she’s standing—that one day the jewelry and clothes will slide back to flowers and candy, and then it won’t even be that anymore.
Tío’s back is turned to Art, who leaves some pesos on the table, gets up as quietly as he can, goes to the counter and pays the check.
Thinking, She may look like a young piece of strange to you, Tío.
To me she looks like a Trojan horse.
Nine o’clock that night, Art climbs into a pair of jeans and a sweater and goes into the bathroom where Althea is taking a shower. “Babe, I gotta go out.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
She’s too smart to ask where he’s going. She’s a cop’s wife, she’s been in the DEA with him for the past eight years, she knows the drill. But knowing doesn’t stop her from worrying. She slides the glass door open and kisses him good-
bye. “I’m guessing I shouldn’t wait up?”
“Good guess.”
What are you doing? he asks himself as he drives toward the Talaveras’ house in the suburbs.
Nothing. I’m not going to drink.
He finds the address and pulls over a half-block away on the other side of the street. It’s a quiet neighborhood, solidly upper-middle-class, just enough streetlights to make it safe, not enough to be obtrusive.