Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring

  “Things are really quiet on the street. The Mexican mafia’s been paid to keep out. They say it comes from Colombia, and the CIA’s involved. This man is connected, Sonny. You gotta be careful.”

  “I will. Gracias,” Sonny answered.

  Juárez, he thought. So they paid the Juárez cartel to use their route. Hell, you couldn’t just pay off the Juárez boys without big money, a lot of money, enough to buy federal officials in Mexico and in the United States.

  He looked up into the blue sky. It was a perfect day for ballooning, and yet the sky was empty. How much longer would the balloonists hang around before they all packed up and left the city?

  A blonde five-year-old and his young mother went by on bikes. They looked at Sonny. Sonny smiled, the woman scowled. They would report him, he figured; he would have to move. He started his truck at the same time Gilroy’s front door opened, and John Gilroy hurried out, jumped into one of his cars, and shot out of the driveway.

  In a hurry, Sonny thought. He waited for Mutt and Jeff to jump into the cable TV van and shoot by, trailing Gilroy, then he followed, straight to the airport.

  There was no time for disguise, Sonny thought, as he followed Gilroy into the parking garage, then to the Southwest Airlines ticket counter. He had to hope the two agents tailing Gilroy didn’t know him.

  His man was in a hurry to catch a flight to Juárez. Sonny cautiously stood a few persons behind Gilroy.

  “El Paso, Mr. Gilroy,” the agent said, handing Gilroy his ticket. “Flight leaves in thirty minutes.”

  Sonny searched his jacket pocket and found twenty dollars. He was broke. He handed his credit card to the agent and said “El Paso.” He breathed a sigh of relief when the agent smiled. “All set, Mr. Baca. They’re boarding now, so hurry.”

  Mutt and Jeff boarded right behind Gilroy, so Sonny was the last one to board the flight. The door closed, and they were quickly airborne. He checked his wallet again. He hadn’t planned on a trip to El Paso, but if the coke was in Juárez then the coincidence of Gilroy going to El Paso was too close to miss. His credit card would be at its limit now. It was going to be a tight squeeze.

  He had friends in El Paso, Joe Olvera and Bobby Byrd, guys he had met while at the university, but he wouldn’t have time to call and borrow money. Gilroy was moving fast.

  The El Paso airport was quiet. Sonny trailed Gilroy and momentarily lost sight of the two agents. Gilroy signaled a cab, got in, and sped away. Sonny jumped into the second cab that swung to the curb.

  “See that taxi,” he said, pointing. “Twenty bucks if you can keep up with it.” He was straining his resources, but he hadn’t come this far to lose Gilroy.

  The dark, mustachioed, pockmarked face of the driver turned and scowled. The man had Asian eyes. “Who the hell do you think you are, Charlie Chan?”

  “Twenty bucks,” Sonny repeated, and held the twenty in front of the man’s face.

  The man smiled. “All right, bro. So you’re not Charlie Chan,” he said, grabbed the twenty, and burned rubber as he left the airport. Gilroy’s taxi was in sight, but moving fast.

  “You a cop?” the driver asked. “See, if you’re a cop, I can break the law, maybe not worry about tickets.”

  “I’m not a cop,” Sonny answered. “I’m Elfego Baca.” He smiled into the rearview mirror at the cabbie, while keeping his eye on Gilroy’s taxi as they wove in and out of traffic. “And don’t worry about tickets.”

  “Elfego Baca? Used to be an old cowboy or sheriff or something by that name,” the driver said.

  “That’s me.” Sonny smiled.

  “You from New Mexico?” the cabbie asked.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Ah, you manitos are all alike.” He frowned.

  Where were Mutt and Jeff? Sonny wondered. They couldn’t have lost Gilroy, but he hadn’t seen them come out to the taxi line.

  “What city?” the cabbie asked.

  “’Burque. I’m here on vacation.”

  The driver laughed. “It’s no vacation, bro. You got no luggage, see, and you’re following a smart man. The driver knows the area, and he knows how to lose people.”

  “But he ain’t going to lose us,” Sonny said.

  “Not this dude. Hey, I grew up here. I can stay with him.”

  Sonny glanced at the driver’s plastic card on the sun visor. Marcos Vargas. A homeboy. He was in good hands.

  “Hey, bro,” the driver said as they drove toward the bridge that crossed into Juárez, “your man’s going into Juárez. Wanna follow?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s extra to cross over,” Marcos said, and leaned his arm on the backrest as the traffic slowed down at the border checkpoint. “And I don’t do drug deals. I got a family, see, and I’ve done time. So I want to keep my nose clean.”

  He turned and looked at Sonny, his coal-black eyes letting Sonny know where he stood.

  “I’m following the man because I think he killed someone.” Sonny leveled with the cab driver. “You drop me now and the man’s free.”

  Marcos shook his head and hit the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. “Damn! Another wild story. Por qué yo, Dios? Por qué yo?”

  Just ahead of them was the border checkpoint, the Mexican agents looking into cars and asking the usual questions.

  “And you’re broke, right?”

  “Right.” Sonny shrugged, trying to smile.

  Marcos groaned. “I told my old lady this morning, today is going to be a good day. Why? Because I just feel it in my blood. Then you show up. Are you carrying contrabanda?”

  Sonny shook his head.

  “Are you carrying a weapon?”

  Again Sonny shook his head.

  “Mexican jails are the pits.” Marcos swore and drove up to the Mexican agent. “Believe me, I’ve been in one.”

  “A dónde?” the Mexican border agent asked, glancing at Sonny.

  “El señor va comprar pisto,” Marcos answered.

  The agent smiled. “Cuánto tiempo va pasar en México?”

  “Una hora, es todo,” Sonny answered.

  The agent stepped back and waved them through. Marcos sped away to catch up with Gilroy’s taxi. “Murder,” he said as they veered away from downtown Juárez. “Your man’s headed to the Colonia de los Muertos. The mafia warehouse district. You sure you want to go in there?”

  “I’m sure,” Sonny replied. He had come this far, and his instinct told him Gilroy was going to an important rendezvous. Perhaps to the coke shipment.

  They followed the cab along the railroad tracks into a large warehouse district. Small tienditas and talleres dotted the potholed street; mangy dogs and snot-nosed kids played in the street. Dark-skinned women who had seen one cab pass now turned to watch the second one. Two cabs from El Paso meant trouble. Mothers called from open doors for their children to hurry inside.

  “He stopped up ahead.” Marcos pointed as he pulled to the side of the narrow, deserted street. “These warehouses belong to the Juárez cartel,” Marcos whispered. “Carillo territory. You don’t walk these streets unless you’re buying or delivering carga.”

  Carillo was México’s top cocaine smuggler. His Juárez cartel had grown as big as the Cali cartel. Carillo bought cocaine from Colombia, brought it through Guadalajara and Ciudad Juárez, and flew it into the States. The Mexican press called him “Lord of the Skies” because he used jet airliners to fly coke from Colombia to Mexico. Looked like now he was expanding into the heroin trade as well.

  “The man competes with the Gulf cartel,” Marcos said. “He buys for the Tijuana and Sinaloa cartels and runs his show from here. He buys directly from Orejuela in Colombia. But you know that,” he said, his eyes boring into Sonny’s. “You played games with me. I’m dropping you off and you’re on your own.”

  “I’ll level with you,” Sonny confessed. “The guy we’re chasing is just about to ship a big load of dope up to Alburquerque. I want to stop it.”

  “But y
ou’re not a cop?”

  “No. With me, it’s personal.”

  He fished in his wallet, turned the flap behind which he always carried a ten. For emergencies, and this was one. He handed it to Marcos. “Can you wait?”

  “Wait?” Marcos looked at the ten and laughed. “For ten bucks you want me to wait? You’re loco! I come within five feet of anyone doing dope and I’m back in the pinta.”

  “I came in a hurry, I didn’t want to lose the man. It’s important,” Sonny explained, offering the ten.

  “Ay, madrecita Llorona.” Marcos shook his head. “Just my luck. I drive dumb tourists back and forth all day, and when I get something exciting, it’s a manito who’s broke. My wife says I should be in the movies; make more money that way. I could be a bad guy. They’re always looking for Chicano bad guys, you know. She says I look like Eddie Olmos.” He turned and faced Sonny. “Okay, Elfego, I’ll drink a cup of coffee, and when I finish, I call the cops and tell them Elfego Baca is dead in that warehouse. Then I go home. I got a wife and kids to take care of.”

  Sonny smiled and patted the driver’s arm. “Thanks, bro. I don’t plan to be dead.”

  He slipped out of the taxi and scooted between the warehouses to the back. The loading dock was empty. He found a back door, but it was dead-bolted. He took out his jimmy set and tried it on the dead bolt, but he couldn’t turn the pins. The next best thing was a fire escape, so he climbed the rusty ladder to the roof. He pried open a door with a piece of old pipe and entered the cavernous attic of the dark building.

  He made his way through the darkness to a skylight covered with cobwebs and dust. Below him he could hear voices. He wiped away the dust from the glass and looked into the middle of a large room. Under the dim light stood John Gilroy. He was shouting at a man who kept to the shadows. Sonny felt the hair rise along the nape of his neck.

  Raven! Gilroy had come to meet Raven!

  17

  Sonny leaned close and strained to hear.

  “I don’t give a damn what you say! Why did you go up after Baca? He was baiting you for chrissake!”

  “I know he was baiting me!” Raven retorted angrily, turning and facing Gilroy. “Sonny and I like to play games. One of these days he’s going to come into my circle. Then!” He slammed one fist into the other.

  “I don’t give a damn about you and Baca!” Gilroy scowled. “I worked a year on this deal, and I don’t want it screwed up! The whole thing was supposed to be a diversion, not a way to get Baca! It’s gone too far! The boss is pissed!”

  “Fuck him,” Raven cursed, and Gilroy, who had killed men with his bare hands, checked himself from striking. “We can make the drop in Alburkirk with or without the balloons! I can hire Mexicans here!” Raven boasted.

  “You don’t get it, do you!” Gilroy gritted his teeth. “Carillo isn’t in this deal! It took me a year to set up this deal, a year to bypass the Juárez cartel! Nobody has ever tried one this big!”

  Raven sneered. “Chill, man. We’re still on schedule. And Secco’s dead.”

  “Yeah, Secco’s dead and I’m in charge. That’s the only fucking reason the cartel would insure me! They wanted Secco out.”

  “Don’t forget, I’m the one who wasted Secco,” Raven shouted, and approached Gilroy.

  The light from the lone bulb fell on his face, exposing the grotesque, red-scarred wound.

  “You’ll get your cut, Raven, when the dope is delivered and in my people’s hands. You get any ideas beyond that, and your life’s not worth shit.”

  From where he watched, Sonny could sense the fury that bristled between the two men. They hated each other, they didn’t trust each other, but the deal kept them together. Sonny knew it was always like this; the money to be made on drug deals made strange bedfellows. The hate and distrust grew, and only death could ease the greed that was always part of the world of drugs.

  “It works both ways,” Raven spat.

  “Don’t threaten me,” Gilroy responded.

  “Threaten you,” Raven said, sneering. “You’re nothing to me. You’re not what I want.”

  “You want what everybody else wants, the money!”

  Raven laughed. “You’re wrong. Really off base.”

  “What then?”

  “I want Sonny Baca. The man who did this!” He pointed at the scarred side of his face.

  “You can have him,” Gilroy replied, “but let’s take care of business first. You ready?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready. Been waiting all morning for you. There’s a few kilos here.” He nodded to the stack of packages on the floor.

  “Good,” Gilroy said. “Let’s get out of here. I have to get back.”

  “What’s your hurry? Cops won’t come until I call them.”

  Gilroy nodded. “And when the federales get here, they find ashes of the dope in the fire. We’ve paid the capitán in charge to say the big shipment burned. He calls U.S. Customs and tells them he found the drugs, the case is busted. The Mexican papers make a big deal out of it.”

  “And our stash is safe in Alburquerque,” Raven said.

  “Courtesy of UPS. Cops don’t put their police dogs to sniffing UPS trucks!” Gilroy grinned.

  Both laughed.

  They bought people on the inside of the Mexican police and U.S. Customs, Sonny thought. The UPS trucks will have a day and time assigned to go through the agent who’s paid off, and they will be waved through. Then megakilos of coke and heroin go straight up I-25 to Albuquerque.

  The Mexican federales will rush to the burning warehouse, find a few kilos of dope, but they would announce to the press that it was the same shipment they’d been following since it left Colombia. The local DEA agent would agree; case closed.

  But the shipment will already be in Alburquerque, ready for distribution. The city was still the main distribution point.

  It was an elaborate plan. Gilroy was protected by the Cali cartel in Colombia. He had made a deal with the cartel to kill Secco, because Secco was a weak link. They had killed Alisandra’s husband to quiet her, but they must have feared Secco would spill los frijoles if he was arrested. If the newspapers in Colombia ever released her story, Secco would be indicted, and he would talk. So they got rid of him.

  But Raven must also be marked for death, Sonny thought. Gilroy’s connected to the cartel and the military; he has protection. At some point Gilroy would protect his margin of profit—and protect the boss behind the whole deal.

  How in the hell was Raven protecting himself? Did he hold a trump?

  Sonny heard a noise behind him and turned. In the dim light he recognized the two agents who had followed Gilroy: Mutt and Jeff. Each held a pistol.

  Ah. He smiled. “Glad to see you,” he whispered, and silently beckoned them toward the skylight so they could look down on Gilroy and Raven. He was surprised when one of the agents reached down, grabbed him by the arm, and shoved his pistol against his temple.

  “Get up,” the man said roughly. He pushed Sonny away from the skylight, leaned over, and shouted down, “We got a visitor!”

  “Bring him down!” he heard Gilroy shout back. He didn’t act surprised.

  Santo Nino, Sonny groaned. The two cable television repairmen who had followed Gilroy weren’t agents; they were his bodyguards. They had followed Sonny from the airport even as he was tailing Gilroy. Now he recognized the short man. Sweatband, Raven’s crony who tried to kill Sonny in the kitchen! He and the tall man were Raven’s new underlings.

  “Down the stairs!” Sweatband pointed, and the two pushed Sonny down a set of creaking stairs and into the large room where Gilroy and Raven waited.

  “Meet Sonny Baca,” one of the men said.

  Gilroy glared at Sonny. “What about the cab, Tallboy?” he asked the gangly man.

  “It’s gone. The guy cleared out,” Tallboy answered.

  Gilroy sized up Sonny. “So you’re Sonny Baca. Read about you in the paper. I thought you’d be smarter than to get into this shit, Baca. Breaki
ng and entering. I should call the cops.” He laughed.

  “Be my guest.” Sonny smiled. When cornered by mad dogs, a coyote tries to disarm them with his charm, he thought. He knew there was no way out. Four of them, and two were armed. To make a fight of it would be suicide. No, it would be ridiculous, and he didn’t want to die being ridiculous.

  “He’s a real smart-ass,” Raven said, coming out of the shadows to face Sonny.

  Sonny winced. The disfigurement was bad. Even someone in a terrible car accident could be patched up if the doctors got to him in time, did a little plastic surgery. But Raven had lain in the mud and debris of the arroyo for days. Bleeding in the hot, June sun, and later he had to hide in the forest, without medical attention, his face open and festering.

  “What’s the matter, Baca, can’t you stand the sight? You did this!” he shouted, and grabbed Sonny by the lapels. “So look! Get your fill! Look at your work!” he screamed, spewing in Sonny’s face.

  “You made yourself!” Sonny answered, and jerked his arms up and broke Raven’s hold. In the same movement he swung and hit Raven across the chin, sending him reeling against Gilroy. He turned to face the two men with the guns, but too late. One struck quickly, hitting Sonny across the neck with his pistol. The second followed with another blow, and Sonny went to his knees.

  Raven’s kick caught Sonny across the face and flattened him on the floor.

  “Time to die!” Raven cursed. He took a pistol from one of the men and pointed it at Sonny’s head. “I could’ve blown the WIPP truck if it hadn’t been for you!”

  “Wait!” Gilroy shouted, and grabbed Raven’s arm.

  “Why wait!” Raven cursed, his face red with anger, his temples pulsing with rage.

  “Don’t ruin the setup!” Gilroy insisted, pulling Raven back. “I’ve got a better idea. Tie him up,” he ordered the two assistants, and they picked up a groggy Sonny and tied him against one of the exposed steel beams.

  “He’s mine!” Raven protested.

  “You’ll have him!” Gilroy shouted into his face. “But my way. We follow our plan, torch the place. When the cops find the body, it’ll take them weeks to trace him. All we need is two days to finish our work.”