Like every cop in La Eternidad, Margarito had learned fast how to tell a real threat on his life from all the fake ones. True, at one point he’d needed to hire a driver and a security detail, and he never left home without the nonregulation weapons he’d bought himself—like all the other guys on the force, since the city never had money for that kind of thing—but that was it. He’d never armor-plated his truck, and he never wore a bulletproof vest. When he was appointed chief of police, twenty-nine years and nine months ago, officers wore their street clothes and had to provide their own weapons, which meant that every investigator on active duty looked like a beggar. That’s why it was so lucky he got the job. No one liked his style, but it was him, a known torturer and a cruel, corrupt son of a bitch who’d walked out on his own mother as she lay dying, who managed to bring the force up to speed with uniforms, weapons, office furniture, and even a few vehicles. The only squad car they’d had before was an old Jeep Wrangler bought for a song after World War II. It was a sight to be seen—the chief had felt like John Wayne the first time he drove it—but it broke down every ten miles. Luckily, the port wasn’t very big. Anyway, there had never been a need for a car chase before: robberies were usually committed by cattle thieves who went straight back to their ranches. If you were lucky, you’d get there before they’d eaten their haul. There was the occasional burglar who waited in the dark for the right moment to strike, the hustler looking to swipe anything that could be pawned, and the drunk-or-crazy prostitute making a scene in the street. Instead of spending a night in lockup, those usually got sent back to their pimps, who’d straighten them out and make sure they toed the line. Most common were the shoplifters who distracted the clerks and stole without hurting anyone and pickpockets who came to town during Carnival and winter break. That’s how things were when he started. Smugglers and drug dealers? He certainly didn’t invite them or welcome them in, as the newspapers were so quick to say. They arrived with the explosion of activity in the port, had their boom in the seventies, and consolidated their power in the eighties. But they’d always been there and always would be. He’d known dozens of these guys, always cut from the same cloth. Every case started and ended in a working-class neighborhood like Los Coquitos, where you always caught the culprit. His guilt could be real or invented, current or retroactive. It didn’t really matter. It was all there on the pages of El Imparcial de la Sierra, which had tracked his career on four pages of crime reporting every day for almost thirty years. The bank robbers, stoners, bad trips, and that psycho who went around cutting people up with a chainsaw—those all came later: in the last six, maybe seven years. There were no kidnappings, no shoot-outs, none of the problems they had now. Thirty years ago, who could have imagined how much La Eternidad was going to change?
He’d wanted to be a cop as long as he could remember, and his dream came true. What Chief Margarito hadn’t anticipated was that after all those years, being a police officer in the port would feel like rowing solo into the eye of a hurricane. And sometimes the hurricane even called you on the phone to give you a direct order or to say, I’m coming for you—which is what happened the night before.
The day that was supposed to be his last on the job was one of those when you couldn’t tell the sea from the sky, when you knew a storm was coming because you heard the sound of the thunder pushing through the fog and it felt like bombs going off somewhere far away. It was stifling, unbearable, like being inside a pressure cooker: the minute you stepped out of the shower, you were already covered in sweat. After a brutal week when not a single cloud bothered to pass over La Eternidad, when the port’s residents and those few, clueless tourists still drawn in by the malecón decided to huddle in the shade from noon till six at night, the deluge felt like a miracle. It was a furious, thousand-armed giant that knocked down three palm trees and didn’t rest until it had flooded every working-class neighborhood, fishing settlement, and slum. But under the normal summer sun, the city would be a sauna until nightfall. What a difference, he thought. The day he took the job had been clear and sunny with a gentle breeze blowing in off the water. Now, the heat and the fog multiplied his misgivings.
As he finished his usual breakfast (a cup of coffee and a Coca-Cola), he mulled over who could have called to threaten him the night before. When I get my hands on that motherfucker … Hardly anyone had the number of the cell phone he reserved for his most trusted colleagues, his contacts in the trade, a few snitches, and a certain high-ranking military officer. His ex-wife and son were in the respectable phone he used for his professional conversations, even if she only ever dialed his number to yell at him, and his son wouldn’t take a call from him in a million years.
As he lit his second cigarette of the day, he noticed that his hands were shaking. He hadn’t been able to take his mind off the threat or his imminent retirement long enough to fall asleep. What were the guy’s exact words? Your days are numbered, Chief. I’ve got bullets here with your name on them.
He’d been heading out of the office after delegating a few loose ends and saying good-bye to the team who had been at his side for so long. El Flaco was the only one who’d volunteered to keep him company on the way to the beach, more as a friendly gesture than out of any real need.
He got the call on the highway, right in the middle of the storm. His pickup was full of his belongings, and he’d been slow to react because he was at the wheel. El Flaco’s run-down truck was a few yards behind him. Margarito’s phone rang about six times before he noticed the words UNKNOWN CALLER on the screen and picked up—against every instinct he’d developed in three decades of working for the worst kinds of men.
“Hello?”
“You’re going to die.”
Understandably, he didn’t respond right away. Death threats weren’t a common thing, not even for him. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times someone had dared to threaten him directly. One time, Don Agustín’s bodyguard tried it when they picked him up for selling amphetamines without permission from the local wholesalers. Margarito had told the other officers to let him go and knocked the man’s teeth out with two or three right hooks and a few well-placed kicks. Then he’d grabbed him by the collar and snarled, “Say it again, sweetheart, and I’ll bury you alive right here on the beach.” Word must have gotten around, because it never happened again. The guys he worked with didn’t beat around the bush. If they didn’t like something, they told you straight out or acted accordingly, but they didn’t telegraph things beforehand. It was true that since marijuana took off in the seventies, the precinct had been getting more prank calls, especially on the weekends, when the dumber brats had a little too much to smoke or drink. But this was Margarito’s private number, the one he saved for dangerous contacts, and very few people had it. So he slowed down.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Your days are numbered, Chief. I’ve got bullets here with your name on them.”
It sounded as if the mouthpiece was being dragged through sand or gravel and then the call cut out.
He pulled over near some palm trees. There wasn’t another soul anywhere on that stretch of highway.
His initial train of thought was shattered when El Flaco tapped his keys a few times on the passenger’s side window. It took Margarito a second to register that the man standing there was his bodyguard and to lower it for him.
“Die on you?”
“What?”
“Your car, boss. Did it die on you?”
El Flaco was completely soaked from the storm, despite the plastic bag he’d torn open and was using as a hood.
“No, I have to return a call. Give me a minute.”
When Flaco Ibarra didn’t move, he added, “Go back to your car.”
Fucking Flaco, there’s no point in kissing ass now.
The voice had sounded familiar, but he didn’t think it was one of his contacts in either of the organizations engaged in a war of atrocities over the port. He racked his brain but couldn’t think of anything he might have done to anger them. Nothing much had changed in the past few months: the same two groups were still armed to the teeth and determined to massacre each other. La Cuarenta still held uncontested control over Colonia Pescadores. The only difference was the body count. But he’d been instructed to limit his involvement to clearing away the remains.
Did I screw up somewhere? His only arrests in the past few days had been of three gangbangers who’d insisted on selling drugs on the pier, outside their designated territory, but the voice on the phone didn’t seem to come from a gang. No, they wouldn’t go that far, he thought. And whoever it was sounded too well educated to be from the Four-Zero. The face of the young man who’d taken over the leadership of Los Viejos flashed before his eyes, followed by that of the Colonel, who’d recently moved to La Eternidad. Could I have pissed one of them off? You never know with those guys. They can’t be trusted, not with all the shit they snort. It’d be just like the Colonel to want to get rid of someone like him, an associate who knew too much. Still, he wasn’t the type to telegraph his intentions, and Margarito was confident he’d be useful to the warring factions even after leaving his post. He wasn’t surprised when his godson had insinuated there’d be room for him in the ranks. It was what the young man’s father, Obregón—Margarito’s dear friend and the organization’s founder—would have wanted, may he rest in peace. In any case, he concluded, I can’t just leave this threat hanging there. I need to find out who called me. The minute I’m off the force they’re going to be lining up to settle accounts. The new administration had made it very clear he shouldn’t expect any help from them. We all have skeletons in our closets, but Margarito’s closet was especially big. He’d made a lot of enemies over the course of his career, and now they all wanted to get even. But how else was he supposed to have done his job? A cop who doesn’t strike first is a lousy cop.
Just the thought of what awaited him was exhausting. He was sixty years old, about to go into forced retirement, and had one of the worst reputations of any police chief in the country. Not even hell itself would give him a second chance—which is why he needed so desperately to speak with his replacement.
As if the prospect of being killed or hauled into court weren’t enough, there was also a rumor going around that he was the one who’d kidnapped Mr. De León’s daughter the week before and that he was the one who’d demanded the ransom. Well, isn’t that just the goddamn cherry on top. As his former mentor, Elijah, used to say, rumors like that could ruin a gentleman’s reputation.
It might not be such a bad idea to get out of town for a while. With a little luck, he could talk his son into letting him stay at his apartment in Canada until things settled down. If memory served, Canada didn’t require an entry visa—and it didn’t have an extradition treaty with Mexico.
Now that his career was coming to an end, he asked himself what he was going to do with his life. He didn’t have many options left. He pictured himself investing his depleted savings in honest but short-lived businesses; he’d never been much good at those things. He pictured himself down and out, driving his old partners around or working as a bodyguard to the rich and infamous. He pictured himself getting arrested and not lasting long in jail, ending his days beaten to a pulp and carved up by the guys he’d sent through the system. He pictured his immediate future, and he didn’t like what he saw. Which is why he was so grateful for the ace he still had up his sleeve: it was a risky move, but it might just save his hide. First, though, he had to win his successor over.
He set his coffee on the table in front of the window and looked at the two cardboard boxes sealed with packing tape next to the bookshelf. Those files had been his insurance policy for years, especially certain documents signed by or implicating politicians who were still in office. As the chief took them out of his car the night before, he’d thought to himself that those kinds of precautions were going to be useless before long. Knowing his enemies in the mayor’s office, he wouldn’t be surprised if he were detained within hours of being removed from his post. I wouldn’t be surprised, either, if the kidnapped girl suddenly turned up and they tried to lay the blame on me. The proceedings scheduled for the next few hours at city hall were just the start of the public execution they’d planned for him.
Fresh beads of sweat began to gather on his forehead and he realized he’d strayed too far from the air conditioner. He was going to need to jump from one artificially cool bubble to the next all day if he didn’t want his clothes to end up soaked through.
He walked over to the console table by the front door and looked at the objects he typically attached to his belt: key ring, dark glasses, two cell phones, gun, lucky knife. He put on his favorite straw hat and, just before he walked out the front door, looked down at the loafers his ex-wife had given him years ago. For some inexplicable reason, he still had them. The simple elegance of the loafers, more appropriate for a dentist or an accountant, clashed with his button-down shirt and jeans. He’d gone barefoot until he started primary school, which he was forced to attend in flip-flops; he got his first pair of boots when he was twelve and had never worn anything else since. The loafers seemed hypocritical, almost fraudulent. Then again, my whole life is a fraud, he thought, and he decided it was time to break them in.
He couldn’t remember ever having walked through a denser fog: it was hard to see to the end of the block. Just as he was about to open the door to his truck he heard a strange noise coming from the palm trees behind him. Faster than a lightning bolt cuts through the sky and disappears, he’d thought: It’s them. They’ve come for me and they’re going to kill me, right here. But it was just the horrible screech of an owl: it had emerged from the vegetation, beat the air with its wings, and vanished into the fog. An owl, he thought. He’d crossed paths with them before, way back when he and his mother lived out on a ranch in the middle of the sierra, but they never used to frighten him. You scared the shit out of me, fucker. The tiny bit of his brain that had managed to survive the sleepless nights, poor diet, and stress of his thirty years as police chief produced the only remotely profound thought it would have that morning, and Margarito understood why people freeze in terror when they hear those birds screech in the dark, as if they’d spent thousands of years as mice. He got into the truck and thought: It was just an owl. My nerves are shot, it was just an owl, let’s get the hell out of here.
A few moments later his extended cab Cheyenne pickup, purchased with funds from one of the criminal organizations operating in the port, pulled out of the garage and headed straight into the storm.
Among the few possessions he’d managed to hold on to after being extorted by Los Nuevos were his two residences: an apartment in an old building downtown and a house on the beach, which he considered the jewel in his crown despite the fact it was only half finished and he spent barely any time there. Luckily, the title wasn’t in his name. He’d never forget the day Los Nuevos arrived. Bunch of fucking assholes, he thought. I bust my ass my whole life and they drop in and take it all away. He’d gone to check out two decapitated bodies that had been left on the outskirts of the city. It didn’t make any sense; executions just weren’t done that way. The fingerprint database back at the office was such a joke it would take forever to identify them. The chief was examining the crime scene when one of his investigators shouted, “Heads up, Chief! Incoming!” He looked up to see a caravan of five white pickups speeding through the neighborhood. As the trucks got closer, it dawned on him that this wasn’t a visit from the governor. When the first few guys got out of the trucks and nonchalantly leveled their assault rifles at him like they owned him, he studied their clothes and weapons closely. This was before the rash of firefights began, so even with their guns pointed at him, he had no idea what danger he was in. His first thought was that the army had finally come to arrest him for corruption. There’s been a shake-up in the state police, he thought. One of my enemies made it to a position of power without my knowing it. Looking more closely at the new arrivals, though, he quickly realized that no officer in the Mexican military would let his men go around with those handlebar mustaches, sideburns, and goatees.
“What do you want?”
“Get in, Chief Margarito González,” someone shouted from inside one of the trucks. “We’re going for a spin.”
He was so surprised he didn’t even put up a fight when they took his gun.
The truck they hoisted him into seemed like a recent acquisition—by one means or another. The leather smelled as if the vehicle had just rolled off the assembly line, and inside two rows of seats faced each other with a minibar between them. From one of the seats, a man in a suit with a shaved head, a thick mustache, and a black cowboy hat on his lap addressed him.
“Welcome, Chief. Do you know who I am?”
Margarito gestured toward the street.
“The guy who left me those bodies?”
“That’s right. I’m the new boss around here,” the man replied. “We should talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s very simple, Chief. You do business with Mr. Obregón’s son. But that stops now. You’re either with us or you’re against us. With the job you have, you’ve got to choose. We’ve tolerated your presence until now, because you didn’t make trouble. You were always the type to live and let live, and as long as we didn’t draw too much attention to ourselves we never had any problems with you. But not anymore. We’re coming for all of it. We’re in charge now.”
Margarito took a good look at him but didn’t recognize his face. He spoke and moved like a military man, but he wore expensive clothes from up at the border. A soldier couldn’t afford that luxury.
“Mr. Obregón and his son are on their way out. They’ll either make a deal or they’ll die. In the meantime, we’re calling in the debts some of these local entrepreneurs have racked up. You know who I mean. If they think they get to keep the money they made off us, money they were just holding for us because the army took out our boss a couple of weeks ago—well, they won’t think that for long. And just so there’s no question about who’s in charge here, we’re going to start with you.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Margarito.
“We know you’re close with Mr. Obregón. They pay you five thousand dollars a month for your cooperation.”
It was true. When his friend decided to dedicate himself full-time to the trade, he’d invited Margarito over and said, “If I’m greasing the palms of the federales and every customs agent between here and the border, how could I not pay you a little, after everything you’ve done for me?”
The man who’d been speaking, known as the Colonel, slid a blue plastic cooler toward him with his foot.
“Open it.”
One of the guys sitting next to Margarito jabbed him in the ribs with the barrel of his gun, so he leaned over the cooler.
Inside were the heads of two men he knew: Antonio Gallego and Roque Linares, who dealt drugs for Mr. Obregón in La Eternidad’s nightclubs.
“They didn’t want to work with us.”
The Colonel shut the cooler with the tip of his boot.
“Five thousand a month over fifteen years comes to nine hundred grand. Figuring that you probably spent half of it and that you built a house in the middle of the city, we’re asking for four hundred thousand and the house. That’s for letting you, your wife, and your son live. If you say no, the three of you will end up in a cooler like this one. Your wife teaches history at the university from nine to five. Poor thing, she stays so late the parking lot’s practically empty when she leaves. Your son goes to the same university; he takes classes in the evening and then goes for a run between eight and nine in La Huasteca. The boy’s in great shape; not bad for a civilian.
“Don’t take it personally. We’re doing this to send a message to everyone carrying a debt with our organization: if we start with the chief of police, the others will know they’ve got nowhere to hide. You should be grateful you’re not already in one of these coolers.
“Oh, and another thing,” added the Colonel. “Starting today, you’re going to be seeing a lot of these,” he said, kicking the cooler. “Open whatever investigations you need to, but don’t waste your time trying to solve any cases. You know who did it. In six months, it’ll be your godson and everyone close to him, if they don’t kneel to us. If you want to stay alive, you’ll report to me from now on.” He tossed him a cell phone. “I know you, Margarito. I know you’ll accept our proposal.”
The only thing the Colonel had been wrong about was that much more than six months had gone by, but his godson was still alive and there was no end in sight to the turf battle announced that day. Los Nuevos ruined everything when they showed up. Not only did they take his house and all his savings, but the day after that meeting he’d been forced to give up fencing stolen cars. Taking all the necessary precautions, he went to talk with Obregón about the encounter and was told to accept the Colonel’s terms.
“Those bastards used to watch the border for us. Now they want to break off and start their own organization. The most important thing is to stall them while we get our counterattack together. Give them the money and I’ll pay you back.”
Later that week, though, his friend had a stroke. He didn’t bounce back from it, and his organization never did, either.
That’s why we’re in this mess, concluded Margarito.
As he always did when he stayed out at the beach, he avoided the potholes that were more like ditches, skirted the tall screen of pines that divided the shore from the rest of the world, and merged onto the interstate. The fog lifted in patches, offering him exquisite views, as if everything were stepping out from behind a vast curtain.
It took him longer to cross the row of pines than it did to spot Flaco Ibarra, who was tailing him at a discreet distance in his run-down pickup. The night before, he’d asked Ibarra to keep an eye on the barely passable road, but the guy was hardly a marine. As a bodyguard, he’s not worth shit. He couldn’t hide from a blind man in a dust storm. Chief Margarito hit the hazard lights and pulled over. El Flaco, who’d been going about three miles per hour, pulled over near a billboard and stared at it like he’d never seen anything so amazing in his life. Why is he stopping? What’s he thinking? The chief honked the horn and El Flaco slowly pulled forward. When he was right alongside him, Margarito stuck his head out the window.
“You get worse by the day.”
“We’ve got you, boss. There won’t be any surprises. Hey, did you turn off your radio?”
He was talking about the shortwave they used on the force. The chief nodded. He preferred to communicate by cell phone, since a new technician had just started in the mayor’s office, and he was certain the radio was the first thing they’d tap.
“I did.”
Rather than complain about this, Ibarra simply asked, “Are we still going to the airport?”
Margarito furrowed his brow.
“Hell yes, we are. And the rest of my boxes?”
His escort nodded.
“We already cleared them out of your office. We also fixed that button on the air conditioner and tidied the whole place up, so the new boss finds everything perfectly in order.”
Just the mention of the chief’s successor hit a nerve. It’s never pleasant to walk away from a place you’ve worked at for thirty years, and much less so when the guy filling your shoes wants to throw you into jail.
“See you at the airport.” He had to hand it to El Flaco: he was definitely the most loyal of his security detail. In recognition, he gave him a little nod.
“Make sure everyone’s in position.”
“Right away, sir. Should I get a head start?”
“Of course not.”
If they’re going to shoot me they can take this asshole out, too, for not knowing how to do his damn job.
He closed the window and blasted the air-conditioning. If the people threatening his life wanted to catch him off guard, they’d have to wait until he was in the city. That’s why he’d gone to the beach house: so he could head straight to the airport along the highways and main roads, avoiding La Eternidad’s traffic. He wasn’t about to make any rookie mistakes. It would be too cruel a twist of fate if the man who’d weaseled his way into Margarito’s job had to figure out, right out of the gate, who’d killed his predecessor. It wouldn’t surprise me if he just left the case open.
The fog was lighter as he passed the refinery, allowing him a clear view of its three flare stacks and the twenty-story spherical holding tanks around which the lives of the oil workers in La Eternidad revolved. As far as he knew, they hadn’t found any pre-Columbian pyramids around there because the people who lived near the Gulf five hundred years earlier used shells, rinds, plants, and other perishable items to build their dwellings. To Margarito’s mind, however, the refinery’s immense black spheres were modern-day pyramids that had shaped the people’s destiny over the last century. Now a new industry had taken over La Eternidad. He never would’ve thought it would be bringing him a little extra cash on the side.
The fog lifted again, providing a moment of spectacular visibility. There were no other cars around, no one waiting to shoot him: just him and the open road and the dunes. Still, there was no reason to tempt fate. He stepped on the gas, trying to escape the fog and his fear. He spent the next few minutes well above the speed limit imposed by a rusty sign. When he looked in the rearview mirror, he saw the little yellow fleck of El Flaco, following at a prudent distance in his compact pickup.
He left the wasteland of potholes and scattered palm trees behind and looked back at the flames from the flare stacks, still partially hidden by the last ribbons of fog that finally let up as he reached the municipal dump. He turned off the air conditioner to keep the smell out of the car and hit the gas. Why not, it’s a special occasion. In less than a minute, he’d hit seventy-five miles per hour and was enjoying the relatively good condition of the highway. The chief had always had a thing for speed. Seeing that red light loom in the distance at the city limits was his first reality check: he realized that he’d need to start going a bit lighter on the accelerator when he turned in his plates. Come to think of it, this was really his last chance, since they wanted the transfer of power to take place that morning. Which is why, even though he saw the orange Caribe and the stake-body truck slowly approaching the intersection, meekly respecting the rules of the road, Margarito ran the red light, forcing the other drivers to slam on the brakes. They hadn’t yet recovered from the shock when Flaco Ibarra sped past in his trunk, tapping his horn twice as he crossed in front of them. The man driving the Caribe, one Dr. Solares, saw them and said, “A strange chase: two old-timers trying to outrun death.” His son, who was in the car, made note of the comment.
Margarito took the beltway to avoid the military checkpoint on the way into the city. Not only were he and the general in charge of the area not on the best of terms, he also wanted to be able to see any possible threat coming from a mile away. Before long, he was where the avenue leading to the airport began, at the end of the malecón. Ever since the violence started, there were three kinds of roadblocks you might run into: First, there were the ones the military set up at the entry points to the city in order to confiscate weapons twenty-four hours a day. Only an idiot would go that way: the soldiers were famous for seizing everything down to your nail clippers. Second, there were the barricades his department had to raise around the perimeter of a crime scene, at least until they found a good enough reason to drop the case. And third, there were guard stations you’d see here and there, which had been set up by the criminals themselves in neighborhoods recently acquired by their organizations and anywhere a local capo lived. He’d often see guards on his godson’s payroll posted at strategic intersections in fake military uniforms. The most confident—or the most cynical—ones didn’t bother wearing a disguise at all.
As he turned off the beltway, the sky was a dark mountain falling across the earth.
Right before he reached the airport, Margarito saw two trucks pulled up across the road. They were patrol vehicles—at least they looked like the new patrol vehicles—but he didn’t want to take any chances. He slowed down and set his gun on the seat between his legs after releasing the safety in a fluid movement he’d learned over the years. He looked in the rearview mirror and was surprised not to see El Flaco behind him. Goddammit, he thought. Some bodyguard I’ve got. He’d had a bad dream the night before: None of his men had gone to the airport like he’d asked them to, and he was forced to get out of his car in the middle of a downpour. In the dream, he’d noticed as soon as he stepped out of his vehicle that the water was up to his knees. He took a few steps, and it had risen to his waist—heavy like silt, like sand, like cement in a mixer. He woke just as he realized the water was an impossibly deep red. Maybe it was age or his experience, but at this point he didn’t need anyone to interpret his visions for him, not even La Santa. “There’s your warning right there,” he said to himself. “Plain as day.”
He honked the horn once without coming to a complete stop. If the guys waiting up ahead were hit men, it would be the perfect place to shoot him: they’d left just a small path down the avenue, between the trucks. All one of them needs to do is move a little and I’m boxed in. But then La Tonina, recognizing Margarito’s truck, jumped out from one of the vehicles and waved. Margarito pulled up alongside him.
“Where’s the Suburban?”
“It’s in the lot already, boss. I came out here to coordinate. Everything’s in order. There are just two security detail vehicles: one of them with the guards sent to pick up the notary, Carrizo, and there’s some dude from the mayor’s office in the other, his personal escort. The mayor’s in a van, and he’s got a girl with him.”
A bad start for the mayor, Margarito thought, if he only sent two civilians to pick up his guest of honor.
“Find El Flaco for me.” After their many years of working together, he didn’t need to specify that he wanted an escort from the airport to headquarters, one vehicle in front and one behind. “Yes, sir. One more thing: Dr. Antonelli just went inside.”
Goddammit, of all the days for her to turn up. There was only one person in La Eternidad who could insult him, scream at him, and make a scene without his being able to do anything about it. That person was Dr. Antonelli. She was one of the most respected professors at the university and, as far as the chief knew, the only historian who studied La Eternidad. He was certain one day he’d wake up to the news that she’d published a lengthy tell-all about him. All she’d need to do was write down what she heard while they were together. Which reminded him: “How are we for reporters?”
“A TV station showed up, and a photographer. Their credentials checked out so I let them in.”
“Move the barricade closer and give me some backup. I don’t want the press in there, no disturbances.”
“Yes, sir.”
He needed to talk with his successor about how it was all going to go down, and the twenty-minute drive from the airport to headquarters was his last chance before the guy took office and started making trouble for him. Everything had to run smoothly.
He drove past his men, who followed him in their trucks, and immediately recognized Dr. Antonelli’s old Ramcharger in the parking lot. Goddammit. Dealing with her wasn’t going to be easy. And he was going to have to deal with her, of course: there was only one waiting area.
From his car, he watched the plane land. El Flaco was nowhere to be found, but he did have to acknowledge that the whole thing was going like clockwork. A government van dispersed the drivers who insisted on idling near the entrance and the chief parked behind the mayor. The typical short, potbellied driver, who was about to become an official budget line, opened the side door of the vehicle and a pair of long legs emerged, followed by a designer miniskirt, a girlish waistline, and a pair of small but exquisite breasts—a tall woman with curly red hair, carrying a thick folder. The chief watched her with more disdain than desire. And what are you planning to stop the bullets with, sweetie? He got out of his truck as soon as he saw La Tonina jump out of his vehicle, rifle in hand. He was a good officer, La Tonina. Out of the corner of his eye he confirmed that El Dorado, the golden boy, was behind him, and finally, there was El Flaco, trying to catch his breath as he approached.
“Where have you been, asshole?”
The answer sent a shock through him.
“I thought I saw suspicious activity.”
“What was it?”
“A blue vehicle with two cholos inside, headed this way. They turned around two blocks back, though. I’m telling you, we’ve got this place secured. Oh and, hey, your wife’s in there.”
The chief glanced at the airline service counter, where Dr. Antonelli was checking that the flight from Mexico City was on time. She wore a dress and heels, with a shawl draped over her shoulders. Her makeup suited the occasion. Without saying a word to his subordinate, the chief made his way across the parking lot.
They stood across from the domestic arrivals waiting area, making the civilians around them nervous—and with good reason. When you see someone with the Chief Margarito’s build coming at you, with that look on his face, you know you have nowhere to turn. Not even to the law. On his way through the door, he’d determined there was nothing suspicious about the group beyond the general commotion of those waiting for friends and relatives. The young woman in the miniskirt, who’d probably been out of college for only about fifteen minutes, was chatting with two photographers and a television crew. Like everyone who worked for the new mayor, she brimmed with excitement and good intentions. As she distributed copies of his replacement’s résumé, the girl extolled the man’s virtues: two years on the local police force; a grant to study modern investigative and combat techniques abroad; a four-year residency in Quebec, where he’d worked in the private sector; absolute respect for the law and for human rights.
The girl gave her speech at a volume that was hard to ignore.
“The officer arriving today is a man of integrity ready to transform the city. The mayor himself went to meet with him in Canada, where he was living in exile, and convinced him to come back and join his team. Will you be at the induction ceremony? It will be at city hall at ten o’clock sharp.”
One of the journalists cleared his throat and gestured, with a discreet movement of his mustache, in Margarito’s direction. When it became clear the girl wasn’t getting the message, he ended up greeting the officer.
“Morning, Chief.”
“Juan de Dios, good to see you. Let me borrow the young lady a second.”
The girl blanched but allowed herself to be pulled aside.
“There’s been a change of plans. I’m going to be escorting our guest of honor.”
The girl opened her round, strawberry-colored mouth.
“But they sent me to get him! I have to explain his itinerary.”
“You’ll explain it later, sweetheart. Juan de Dios,” he called to the reporter. “Come over here.”
The journalist walked over, white as a sheet and looking like he might faint, despite the fact he used the byline Fearless Juan. Over the past fifteen years he’d written hundreds of incendiary articles about Margarito in newspapers of increasing irrelevance, criticizing the chief’s every move. Recently, instead of celebrating the opposition party’s victory in the mayoral race, he’d been applauding the shake-up at police headquarters. He’d been the chief’s staunchest critic throughout his career, and there was no way he was going to miss the arrival of his replacement.
“I enjoy those little jokes you write,” Margarito hissed.
Over the past few days, Fearless Juan had, in his capacity as an informal adviser to the new mayor, suggested to the politician that it might not be a bad idea, after the transition at headquarters, to look into the current chief’s ties to the organizations wreaking havoc on the region. With this on his mind, the reporter looked like he was about to burst into tears. Fucking Margarito, he thought. Always with an angle. The devil really is on his side. The chief, however, just patted him on the shoulder and said, “Will you take a picture of me with the man of the hour? A good one, cabrón—good enough for your column.” And he pushed him toward the crowd.
“Sir …” the girl insisted.
Just then he saw the first passengers to get off the plane filing in to collect their luggage. With a “We’ll talk later,” he left her standing there, stunned, in the middle of the crowd.
“Chief,” someone behind him called.
He turned to see a morbidly obese man in shorts and a T-shirt big enough to serve as a camping tent. The man was wearing a cap with the logo of a private security company on it, and the smile he was aiming at Margarito looked sincere. But the chief didn’t recognize him until the other added, “It’s me, González. Panda González, remember?”
His eyes and hair were exactly as the chief remembered them, but the man’s face and what used to be his body looked as if they were wrapped in a layer, almost a tire, of fat. Margarito struggled to hide his surprise.
At that point, his bodyguards relaxed and the man was able to give the chief a hug, or the closest thing to a hug his girth would allow. You could tell from a mile away he had a very high opinion of his former boss.
“I saw you from back there and wanted to come over to congratulate you. They tell me you’re retiring.”
Of course he had to bring that up.
“I’m being fired,” the chief corrected him. “And they took away my pension.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Margarito said and shrugged his shoulders.
“Anyway, I just wanted to say hello.”
Ten years ago, Panda had been one of his most trusted officers: he was always ready to mix it up and never lost a fight. He was the shortest of Margarito’s men, but his stocky five-foot-four-inch frame commanded plenty of respect. Panda González, El Flaco, El Dorado, and La Tonina were his right-hand men, but Panda couldn’t handle the pressure. He quit a few weeks after he was forced to discharge his weapon during a bank robbery, accidentally killing a woman and her husband. The papers published the couple’s story in a multipart series: a model husband and wife who ran a charity and donated generously to the local hospital, which was always in danger of closing. They were in the wrong place at the worst possible time, and the arrogance and incompetence of the local police did the rest. He was a good cop, thought the chief. One of my most seasoned, and a good man. Come to think of it, that’s why he left.
“What are you up to these days, my dear Panda?”
His former associate held out a card that read:
Lightning Bolt Surveillance
Security personnel * Bodyguards * Cameras * Alarms
We’re with you 24/7
Then he gave an address at the outskirts of the city.
“You’re working for Mr. Chuy?”
“Hey, yeah. That’s right. We’re with you, whatever you need.”
“And how’s it going?”
The Panda cleared his throat.
“Good, you know. Relaxed. I’m on residential security detail. You know the Garza Blanca condominiums? The ones you can see from the highway? I work there, at the gate.”
Margarito knew the place and could picture the inconsequential guard station at the entrance to the luxury condominium. Sizing up visitors through a little window, asking for identification, lifting that needle of a barricade a hundred times a day for every car that came or went. He pictured a small, smelly bathroom; a cheap blanket; nights spent on a cot, catching a few winks here and there—always at the beck and call of the residents and their stuck-up kids, afraid some burglar might take advantage if he nodded off—that zombie state where you can’t think clearly, which steals one day after another until the end. He pictured a little television switched on around the clock until it breaks.
Under different circumstances, he would have said, Stop by the office, I’m sure we’ve got something for you. But this was his last day on the job, and soon he wasn’t going to be in a position to help anyone, not even himself.
“I’ll come visit you there.”
“I’d like that, Chief. But I don’t want to distract you. Here they come.”
It was true: people were starting to make their way through the frosted glass doors: Carrizo and his bodyguard, followed by a rancher who burst out of the building like a charging bull after seeing the policemen gathered inside; a young man whose sweatshirt bore the name of a prestigious foreign university and who hugged his parents and sisters in turn; a slender woman in her forties with pearly skin, blood-red lips, and hair the color of a raven’s wing. She wore an expensive suit, and no one had come to pick her up. Then came two clean-shaven businessmen who smelled like lotion: a young woman greeted one of them with a peck on the cheek, and the other, probably her husband, with a passionate kiss. Behind them, people in the crowd waited to pluck their luggage from the conveyor belt.
He recognized him right away, even though the young man had his back to him. Certain bonds of blood and hatred simply can’t be broken. They say people in this line of work always know when an enemy is near. As if he could sense Margarito’s presence, the newcomer looked up and scanned the crowd. He knows he’s going to need all the help he can get, thought the chief. Given the state of things here. Just then, the man saw him and shook his head disapprovingly. It won’t be easy to get him to listen, he went on. But I have to try.
The newcomer grabbed a medium-size bag and headed for the exit. He stood out from the crowd, not only because he was tall, but also because he was obviously in excellent physical condition.
“Now,” he said to El Flaco and waved the journalist over. “Hey, Juan, over here.”
La Tonina, El Flaco, and El Dorado stepped in to cut the new arrival off from everyone but Juan de Dios. The head of public relations for the mayor’s office and the rest of the journalists clamored to get closer, but who could get around those three? With one smack, La Tonina dropped the only guy who refused to back off.
Thrown by the fact that no one from the mayor’s office had come to meet him at the airport and above all at seeing Margarito waiting there for him, the young man who was going to be inducted as the new chief of police later that morning stopped dead in his tracks and quietly greeted the current police chief of La Eternidad.
“Hello, Dad.”
A few paces behind them, Juan de Dios Cuevas, better known as Fearless Juan, thought, Only in this line of work …
Sensing that destiny was about to step in and ruin everything, he took the last photo in which the two men would appear together.
Conversation in the dark
“Did you hear?”
“About the new guy?”
“Yeah. He starts today. Margarito’s finally retiring.”
“About time. He’s been at that job forever, and lately he’s been totally useless. Nothing like how he was twenty years ago. He was a pain in the ass, but reasonable. You could work with him.”
“They say there’s going to be some big changes.”
“Like what?”
“Looks like they’re rolling out the red carpet for the new guy: weapons, cars, intelligence advisers, trained agents. They say the mayor is getting funds from Washington and that the money is about to start pouring in. He promised to put an end to the shootings.”
“And I promise you, that’s not going to happen. It’s always the same thing. Talk is cheap.”
“Who knows? We’ve already had a few surprises this year.”
“What’s he going to do? Get out there and walk the beat? His patrol cars are heaps of junk and he may have guns, but without ammo, they’re just decoration. A kid could beat most of his men in a race, and I’ve seen slingshots more dangerous than his rifles.”
“We’ll see.”
“I don’t know. If he really wanted to change things, do you think they would’ve let him get this far?”
“Sometimes they get there, but they’re not allowed to stay. Remember what happened in La Nopalera? How long did that new police chief last?”
“An hour and a quarter.”
“He got an hour and a quarter to show for it and five pounds of lead. We’ll see.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. Place your bets.”