The buzzing of his phone woke him up again. Goddamn fucking pills. He had three messages waiting for him from La Muda. Margarito opened them one by one, praying the battery would last.
THE GIRL WONT DRINK WATER HOW DO I GIVE HER THE MEDISIN?
And then:
THE GIRLS AWAKE THE OTHER TRIED TO RUN. WHEN R U COMING BACK? SEND HELP
His phone was almost dead. Margarito answered:
GIVE THE GIRL A SCARE AND SHOOT HIM IF YOU HAVE TO
She answered immediately. She must have been glued to her phone.
TO LATE THE BASTERD GOT OUT OF HIS CHAINS
To which he responded:
ON MY WAY
No, thought the chief. Hell no. That money is my retirement fund. It’s mine, even if we have to take Treviño out of the picture sooner than planned.
He looked out the window and saw the neighbors still playing basketball. He couldn’t leave with them out there, so his mind wandered back to the attack. What the fuck did I do to some fucking Guatemalan to make him come up here and ambush me? Someone definitely hired them to do the job and helped them plan it, but it wasn’t La Cuarenta. They had nothing to gain from it, and it’d put their whole organization at risk.
He considered Los Nuevos, then thought about his godson and wondered if he might have it out for him. The kid was capable of anything. We were all screwed when he developed a taste for the product.
Then there was the matter of the fifty thousand dollars. Margarito knew all too well what to expect. On the force, he’d had a front-row seat to observe what happened when that kind of price was put on someone’s head. It was just a matter of time before even the people closest to you started trying to cash in. Hell, he’d even done it himself. Like they didn’t slip him a little bonus for Elijah?
In the distance, three fishermen tossed fish carcasses to the pelicans from their boat. The sea crashed against the rocks. Fuck. He still felt shaky, but he had to jog his memory: he needed to remember every word, every inflection of that phone call. Like a song. He had zero clues, no team he could trust. They’d killed his son and two of the three guys who’d always been at his side. They took out La Tonina and El Dorado, and they would have done the same to him and El Flaco if Roberta hadn’t shown up.
He’d hoped his contact with the federales would help him trace the call. Now he knew it was impossible. With technology out of the picture, he’d have to rely on plain old intuition, the way he did thirty years ago, before the Internet and cell phones.
All right, he thought. Who’s the cabrón that called me?
It was ten at night.
The machine of his intuition rumbled back into operation.
It was a man’s voice. Not a teenager or some old geezer, either. A powerful bastard in his prime. Self-assured, the kind who thinks the world is his for the taking. All that, for sure, but there was something else. He had pronounced each word with exceptional care, as if he’d been planning his speech for a long time. As if he didn’t so much want to communicate information as cast a spell. That’s it: the bastard wanted to scare me, and he’s been planning it for a while.
The windows of the house across the street reflected the sun’s light straight into his eyes and he needed to look down. All right. What did that asshole say? Your days are numbered; I’ve got bullets here with your name on them. He finally understood: the key to the whole thing was in that call.
In his first moments of lucidity, Margarito asked himself what had bothered him so much about that phrase. He struggled with the question like a straitjacket before it hit him: The fucking punk said it like a prayer, or a spell, or a slogan.
That’s it. That’s how I’m gonna get you, you son of a bitch.
Things were about to start moving very quickly.
According to his dying phone, it was seven thirty. If he hurried, he could still catch the perp and claim the ransom for the girl.
Just as he was about to leave, he heard someone walk up to the door. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Panda González.
“You awake? I went home and came back and you were still out. You didn’t answer when I talked to you, just gave me this blank stare.”
Now that he mentioned it, he thought he’d seen his former report pass through his field of vision a couple of times. Fucking pills. Goddamn, was I wasted.
“Take your time. I brought you something.”
The guard handed him a small metal thermos.
“Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Chamomile. Cut fresh by my wife.”
The chief took a sip from the container. It was the best thing he’d had to drink in a long time.
“This is delicious. Best thing I’ve ever had.”
“It’s fresh. That’s why it tastes so good.”
He’d had only two sips, and he already felt something like calm settling into him. Amazing.
“I need to pop out of here like a cork, Panda. Lend me your car.”
The guard looked worried.
“You’re not going to do anything illegal, are you?”
“What do you think? I’m an officer of the law.”
Panda handed over the keys.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Margarito climbed into the black compact car parked outside. It smelled of chiles and onions. He started the motor and cursed his luck when he noticed it was a stick shift: he’d have to figure something out if he was going to drive with that injured left arm.
La Muda didn’t need words to insult him. She was so angry her frenetic stream of gesticulations lasted a good three minutes. The sweeping movements of her hands berated the chief in every tone imaginable. What happened to you, you piece of shit? Can’t you tell time? I’ve been waiting here for you for two days! She informed him they’d run out of water, the bathroom stank—she kicked in the door to prove her point—the fridge was empty, there was nothing to eat or drink. She had no dope left for the girl—who, by the way, would scream for help now and then—the guy kept trying to escape, she hadn’t slept in two days, the chief was the worst good-for-nothing son of a bitch the port had ever seen, and how dare he leave her hanging like that.
“All right, all right! Goddamn it! What’s the matter, haven’t you seen the news?”
With that, La Muda pointed to the television’s broken screen and kicked the wall. You had to hand it to her, the woman was expressive.
“I’ll come for her first thing in the morning, okay? I’ll come for the girl tomorrow. Relax,” he said, passing her the bag of food and the bump of coke he always kept in his wallet. “And here’s the girl’s medicine. We’ll give it to her in a second. Now quit bitching at me and let’s get to work.”
They put on their ski masks and got into character. He grabbed the voice distorter, grateful it was still working, and called the girl’s father. He picked up after three rings.
“Get the money ready and place it in three trash bags. I’ll call you tonight to tell you where and how to make the drop. If there’s so much as a penny missing, your daughter dies.”
“Hey, wait! Prove to me that she’s still alive.”
Margarito kicked the metal door and slid open the peephole.
“Say hello to Daddy.”
“Dad! Dad!” wailed the girl.
“Wait,” said De León. “Your ransom note mentioned my daughter’s birthmark. What does it look like?”
“A triangle, with the three corners stretched out. And don’t you start second-guessing me or the girl gets it.”
He closed the peephole and went back to the dining area.
After he hung up, Margarito removed his ski mask and called for La Muda.
“Come here, give me a hand with this.”
They went to open the three locks on the closet in the back where Margarito kept his personal arsenal. The chief pulled out a menacing-looking shotgun, a Remington machine gun, and two assault rifles, then bent over to grab a very thick rope and a few magazines for his sidearm. Then he smiled with something that resembled serenity. On his way out, he turned and grabbed a duffel bag with the words FOR THE EXCLUSIVE USE OF THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES OF MEXICO printed on it. It looked heavy. He locked the door behind him and gave the rope to La Muda.
“Come with me.”
They opened the door to the room where they were keeping Treviño. Margarito released the safety on his gun with a loud click.
“Come out from there or I’ll skin you alive, cabrón.”
Treviño stepped out from behind the door and put his hands up.
“Tie him up again,” he directed La Muda.
As they headed for the front door, he told his assistant he’d see her at six.
“Got it? See you here at six a.m. I have a few things to take care of first.”
Half the city was looking for him, but he still had time to go to the cemetery. As usual, there was only one guard, who made the rounds with his flashlight a couple of times every night. The man had a deep respect for the law and led Margarito to the corner where his son had been laid to rest. He even lit the area for him.
“Give me a minute.”
Margarito had just noticed that someone, probably his wife, had placed one of their son’s old stuffed animals on his final resting place. A little stuffed turtle. That was the only time he broke down. The night watchman recited the words he had ready for moments like this: “There, now. You’ll be together soon.”
“You have no idea,” said Margarito. “But not just yet.”
After a heavy, uncomfortable moment, the chief leaned forward and slid the turtle to the middle of the boy’s tomb. The night watchman was silent as Margarito got to his feet and said aloud: “To be continued, Ricardo.” Then he turned to the guard. “How do I get out of here?”