“Don’ know no Raven!”
“Where’s Raven?” Sonny shouted, and hit him again, pushing him against the basket.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about!” Bobby Lee cried.
“Where’s the woman and the girl?” Sonny shouted, and hit the man again. “Answer me!” Bobby Lee fell into the spilled cocaine and Sonny landed on top of him. The DEA dogs growled and pulled at their leashes.
“Where’s Raven? Where’s Rita?” Sonny shouted as he grabbed Bobby Lee and shook him.
The startled crowd pressed in to see the fight. The DEA agent with the dog was on top of them, and now the dog was snapping and barking.
“DEA officer! Stand back! Stand back!” He pulled his pistol.
“Sonny, stop!” Madge called.
“Where’s the woman?” Sonny shouted as he hit Bobby Lee again.
Only the powerful hands of Chief Garcia and one of his assistants were able to pry Sonny away from the man.
“Take it easy Sonny, easy,” the chief said as he pulled Sonny back. “We need him alive.”
“He’s working for Raven! He can tell us where to find Rita!” Sonny gasped for breath.
He had snapped. Now as he stood back catching his breath, he knew he might have killed the man. He was trembling, feeling a stab of pain shoot up from the cut in his arm. He had reopened the wound.
Garcia leaned over the groaning Bobby Lee. “Tell me where they’re hiding the woman or I’ll give you back to him,” the chief threatened.
“You fuckin’ crazies,” Bobby Lee cursed. “I don’ know about any woman!”
“You know Raven!” the chief shouted.
“I don’ know Raven! I don’ know the fuckin’ operators!” He groaned. “I get paid for delivering this to Dallas. That’s all.”
Garcia pulled back. The man was probably telling the truth. He had been hired to fly the coke out of the field, load it on his waiting chase truck when he landed, then drive to Dallas and deliver it.
Bobby Lee was just a delivery boy, he didn’t know the players. The deal could have been arranged on the phone, or arranged by one of Raven’s boys. Bobby Lee had never met Raven, and he didn’t know about Rita.
He turned to Sonny and shrugged. “He doesn’t know, Sonny. He’s a delivery boy. You found the dope, but he doesn’t know Rita or the girl …”
“Sonofabitch knows.” Sonny lurched forward, but the chief stopped him.
“Sonny, you know better! These guys do the delivery, that’s all! You know how it works!”
Sonny felt a shudder go through him, and suddenly he felt very weak. Garcia was right, the gofers usually knew very little.
“Two ran,” he said as he watched two cops put handcuffs on Bobby Lee.
“We got them,” Garcia answered, and turned to Madge. “I’d like to pull them into your office, do some questioning right away. There’s a small chance one of them might know a place, a location. It’s a slim chance, but it’s all we’ve got.”
“Sure,” Madge replied. She looked at Sonny. “They were using the fiesta. And I doubted you. I’m sorry—” She reached out to touch Sonny, but he drew away.
“Bring those tanks in,” Garcia snapped at his officers. Sonny recognized Jerry Candelaria, the undercover narc he had met at Veronica’s death scene. Candelaria nodded but said nothing as he gave instructions for the tanks to be pulled from the basket.
Madge turned and led Garcia, his cops, and the handcuffed Bobby Lee toward Fiesta Control.
Sonny rested against the basket. The city cops were cordoning off the area, moving the crowd back.
The DEA knew all along, Sonny thought. They knew a big shipment was coming in.
Sonny turned to look at the inquisitive crowd. They, too, thought the dope had been found, all was well. The cops scored again. Some began to take pictures. This was great, a dope bust right in front of their eyes. Uniformed DEA agents and their dogs. And Sonny Baca. They had seen him catch the dopester and beat him up. Great!
“Sonny!” Francine Hunter called. She was pushing through the crowd. The harried Conroy Chino was right behind her, both trying to scoop the story.
You’re on the wrong trail, Sonny thought. Raven and Gilroy and whoever else was in the deal had played it smart. The delivery boys were hired to do the job, but they had no inside information.
The Juárez mafia and the Colombian cartels had spread like a web throughout the land. They could buy anything, anyone. Hell, if presidents in Latin America could be bought, if insiders at the CIA could be bought, then scum like the Bobby Lees of the world numbered in the thousands. Bobby Lee would deliver enough dope to Dallas to keep the city afloat for a day, then it would start all over again. The web was huge and intricate and well financed.
Bobby Lee, the lanky young man with a friendly smile, freckles across his face, and a soft Texas drawl would be out on bail tomorrow. Ready to become the new Gilroy. Ruthless, in command of dope and power, and willing to kill to stay in charge. It was greed and need that fed the process.
Bobby Lee was a pawn in a big money game he didn’t yet understand. He was a young man looking for good times, fast money, fast women, the thrill of ballooning, the thrill of life on a fast track. And all of that cost money.
There were thousands of Bobby Lees out there, of all colors and from all walks. They had acquired a taste for expensive things, expensive habits, and drug money was a quick way to buy instant happiness. They had been brainwashed into the system, brainwashed into delivering crack into their own neighborhoods, their own families. And as small and petty as each one of those dealers might be, each helped build and sustain the web.
At the center sat a fat spider. Who? Who was the weaver of the web?
Sonny looked at the television cameras in front of his face, and he squinted at the bright lights.
You should be aiming your cameras at the source, he thought. The real dope ain’t here.
24
The crowd suddenly drew back and looked skyward. The tension of days waiting to fly could no longer be contained, and all around them the balloons began to rise. They rose in waves, according to the flight plan, a bustle of balloons, the zebras whistling and rushing, trying to keep order, shouting instructions as row upon row of the hot-air globes was released from the bond of earth, exploding into a kaleidoscope of colors against the bright, blue sky.
Pregnant with the hot-blue burning propane, the balloons rose suddenly into the open sky. Baskets swung free of tethered lines, carrying pilots and passengers upward. Excited crews left behind shouted hurrahs as the balloons rose, and the crowd of thousands joined in the shout, a salute to the flight. Shouts of joy, amazement, and exclamation vibrated across the field, making the earth tremble. The echo swept across the dusty field and rose up and away with the balloons.
In the dazzling glory of sunrise, the flowers had exploded, blossomed, and were now rising. The beauty of the mass ascension left everyone dumbfounded.
When the sound died away, like thunder dying away as it rumbles in the summer thunderstorms, it was replaced by gasps of awe, the click of camera shutters, mothers calling to children to get a better view.
Amid the regular pear-shaped balloons rose the unique ones, those in the shape of a cow, an Uncle Sam, a Mickey Mouse, and other creatures from American mythology. A balloon in the shape of a bottle of scotch, a Pepsi can, a roll of film, a dinosaur, and other huge, fantastic shapes.
The children pointed and waved at the passengers in the tiny baskets who were suddenly out of reach, rising into the cloudless sky. They called good-byes, wished them a safe flight, cried “See you later alligator,” shrieked and laughed and ran, following the flight of the quickly ascending balloons.
Those lucky enough to be flying smiled and waved down at those they left earthbound. They, too, shouted good-byes, then turned their attention to the huge panorama of sky around them, land below them. This was it! The climb to catch the prevailing wind! The excitement of flight!
&n
bsp; The loudspeakers announced the pilots of the balloons as they passed over the television stand. For those at home the mass ascension was being televised and radioed into homes throughout the city.
Sonny looked up. The excitement brought him no joy. Raven still held Rita. Finding the tank full of coke had been a lucky guess, perhaps too easy. Madge was too cooperative. Something was missing.
Joe Flannery approached Sonny.
“You helped us bust a big one,” he said. “I personally want to thank you …” He held out his hand.
The newspeople swarmed around them, pushing up against Sonny, firing questions. Each wanted the scoop of reporting that a stash of cocaine had just been found at the balloon fiesta. Cameras focused on the spilled cocaine.
“How’d you know?” Francine Hunter called.
Sonny looked at Flannery. Could he really trust the sonofabitch? He didn’t mind who got the credit for finding the coke; all he had wanted was a lead to Rita.
“Forget it,” Sonny said, and pushed by Flannery.
“Sonny!” A harried Francine Hunter followed him. “How did you know? How big is the bust? Can I ask you a few questions? Peter, get a shot—”
“I can’t talk,” Sonny replied.
“How’d you know the dope was here?” she repeated, pushing the mike closer to Sonny.
“There is no dope here!” Sonny snapped, walking away.
“But we heard the coke was brought in by the Cali cartel. Does this mean they have a foothold in New Mexico?”
Sonny spun and faced her. “Foothold? They own the state! They own the country! They make crack for the barrios and make slaves! Where in the hell have you been! Now get off my back!”
“You’re pissed,” she responded, still holding the mike forward. “I understand that, but this is big! I’ve got to get this story!”
Peter had stopped shooting film. “Give the man a break,” he said softly. “He’s got other things on his mind.”
Francine looked from him to Sonny. “Yeah, right. Sorry—”
Her words lingered in the air as Sonny hurried away.
At Fiesta Control a jubilant Chief Garcia came forward to greet Sonny. “We got every single tank on the list! We got ’em cold. Thanks to you.” He smiled magnanimously.
“You got nothing,” Sonny replied.
“What?”
Sonny shook his head. “It was too easy.” Number 47 had been moored too close to Fiesta Control. Too convenient. One of those false clues Raven loved to set.
“Come on, Sonny. Whaddaya mean?”
Joe Flannery and two of his agents had followed Sonny into the building. Now he stepped forward.
“You keeping something from us, Baca? ’Cause if you are—”
“Open the tanks,” Sonny answered. A gnawing feeling tore at his empty stomach. A link was missing in the operation. The DEA had stepped in only after Sonny busted Bobby Lee, and the FBI was hanging back. Not a single agent in sight. Why?
He looked at Madge. She stared back, her cold blue eyes hiding what she really knew.
“I’ll take the tanks downtown,” Flannery said, “have them opened in our lab—”
“Open them now!” Sonny insisted.
“Sonny,” Garcia said sternly, “it’s his jurisdiction. I want to talk to the people we’ve arrested. There’s a chance they know something about Rita. That’s my concern right now.”
“They know zero,” Sonny responded. He grabbed a pair of pliers from a nearby tool chest and opened the safety valve on the nearest tank. The rotten-egg smell of propane filled the air. Sonny opened another and again the gas shot out.
“Gas!” Flannery shouted, a surprised look crossing his face. He looked at Garcia. “Fucking tanks are full of gas!”
Madge moved forward to shut off the tank valves. “There’s no dope,” she whispered.
“Damn!” Garcia cursed and looked at Sonny. “We’ve been had!”
Flannery looked at Sonny and almost grinned. “Looks like my congratulations came too early.” He shrugged. “You found a kilo of coke, that’s all. The rest is gas. So where’s the big shipment you had us chasing?”
“Don’t you know?” Sonny replied, tossing the pliers so a startled Flannery had to catch them.
“Listen, Baca, I don’t like the insinuation,” Flannery snarled, stepping forward. Then he eased back. “Ah, what the hell. Think what you want! What we’ve got here is a kilo of coke, nothing more.”
He turned to Madge. “Might as well let the press in. What we’ve got here is a small bust. No big deal. Sonny Baca’s been wasting our time. I’d like to use your office.”
She nodded. Sonny, the chief, and Madge stood in silence, watching as one of the agents let in the herd of reporters who had waited impatiently outside.
“I told you we were clean,” Madge said. “Whoever did this wanted the fiesta to get a black eye. One guy brings in a little coke, we get a bad rep. But we’re clean.”
“What the hell is going on?” Garcia asked in exasperation. He had made a fool of himself in front of the news media, talking about this arrest as if it were the bust of the century, and he didn’t want to think about his next “meet the press” with only a kilo.
“While we were chasing balloons, the shipment was delivered,” Sonny explained.
“What?” Garcia muttered.
“It was never meant to come here,” Sonny said, looking intently at Madge. “This was a decoy. They planted enough clues to lead us here. They let us bust Bobby Lee, who will be out on bond tomorrow. In the meantime, the drugs were delivered. Courtesy of UPS.”
Garcia moaned. “If you’re right, there’s a hundred ways to get it out of the city. Once the shipment is split up, they’re safe!”
Madge turned to Sonny. “Look, I’m sorry your plan didn’t work, but it proved what I’ve said all along: we had nothing to do with it.”
“Rita’s what’s important now,” Garcia said.
Sonny shrugged. “Raven’s made his deal, he’s got the money.”
“So he can try to blow up another WIPP truck,” Garcia said.
“No.” Sonny shook his head. “This time it’s going to be bigger.” He looked at the police chief. “How far do you trust Flannery?” he asked, and Garcia winced.
“They’ve kept me in the dark,” the police chief replied. “Right now I trust no one.”
“It’s about time they talked,” Sonny said through gritted teeth. He was angry because the drugs had sifted through his hands; angry because once the dope was on the streets, it would poison all the poor neighborhoods of the country. And he was really angry because the chase had taken his time, time he needed to find Rita. The sonsofbitches had led him to another dead end.
“Where’s Stammer?” he asked Madge.
“He’s gone. Probably at his lab. Look, the man’s under a lot of stress, overworked.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Sonny replied, and walked to the door.
“Where are you going?” Garcia called.
“To church,” Sonny replied.
Whoever had sliced Gilroy’s throat was an expert. First Veronica, then Secco, then Gilroy. Deaths they wanted him to connect to the balloon fiesta, but which really had roots in decades of drug trade.
Yeah, everything had been orchestrated, everything in place, everything calculated to lead the local law and Sonny down the wrong avenues. And it had worked. Now it was time to go to the source!
In his truck Sonny dialed home and listened through the messages on his machine. One was from Diego. Sonny dialed him.
“Sonny, glad you called,” Diego said when he answered. “I’ve been on the phone, calling old friends. The deal was made! The dope’s in the city by now.”
“Yeah,” Sonny acknowledged, “I know.”
“And no word on Rita and my hijita. I feel useless as hell sitting here. I’m afraid, Sonny. I’m afraid for my little girl. And her mother’s a wreck, too.”
“Hang in there.” Sonny tried to comf
ort his friend. “I’m going to try something. I’ll check with you later.”
“Cuidado,” Diego said.
“Don’t have time to be careful,” Sonny replied.
He had been thinking of the move he had to make. There was one man in town who knew all about the old CIA connections in Central America. One man who knew Gilroy, who knew the games that U.S. Customs and the DEA were playing. William Stone.
He called Ruth Jamison at the public library.
“Hi, Ruth. Sonny Baca.”
“Sonny, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Listen. I’m in a hurry. What did you find on Stone?”
“Only the newspaper and magazine clippings. There are FBI and CIA files that would be very interesting, but that takes time through Freedom of Information. And files like that get purged. What I have are mostly articles from the Washington Post, the New York Times, et cetera. Stuff most people know.”
Over the phone she sketched out Gilroy’s and Stone’s involvement.
Unlike Gilroy, Stone was a smooth operator. Educated in the Ivy League, he had worked in the foreign service before transferring to the CIA. He had made a name for himself during the Sandinista takeover of Managua. Some said it was Stone’s helicopter that flew Somoza out of the beleaguered capital as it fell. After that the White House gave him the go-ahead to carry out covert operations to supply the Contras.
The right-wing Libertad commandos’ murderous methods of extracting information from the Sandinistas were reported in the papers in Latin America. Not a word of Stone’s activities was reported in the North American papers.
Sandinista prisoners were taken up in helicopters, questioned, made to confess, then pushed out. But the murdering ways of a covert war gone sour began to tarnish the image of the Contras and their Washington backers.
Then the Gilroy incident broke. Reporters began to dig into Gilroy’s past, and the chief operator of Libertad was revealed: William Stone. Those senators who had approved of the clandestine operations to fund the Contras protected Stone and turned on Gilroy.