Two black pickups parked in front of the cathedral at quarter to eight in the evening. At the sight of them, a line of little old ladies wrapped in shawls and overcoats on their way to evening Mass did their best to hurry along. Once five armed men had checked the area for unusual activity, a man in a black hat stepped out of the second truck and into the cathedral, escorted by three of his associates. He practically came alone, thought an old man sitting on a bench, feeding the pigeons. He tossed the rest of the corn at the birds, picked up the trash bag at his feet, and headed toward the cathedral.
The two guys guarding the door scoped out everyone who walked down that street. They thought they’d been doing their job well, but like many who thrive in La Eternidad, they’d been dense and too conservative, and their day was about to get a lot worse.
They didn’t see him until it was too late. He placed the bag on the ground and put his hands in the air. The two watchmen were slow to react.
“What the hell was that? Quit sleeping on the job. I’m here to see the bald man, and I’m packing, at the waist.”
The one with the bigger mustache and a serpent’s smile lifted the man’s checked shirt and removed his weapon. Before letting him pass, the guard rummaged around the plastic bag with it.
“The piece stays here. Go on in.”
Just as the man was about to enter the church, the guy with the mustache hit him in the back with the butt of the gun. The chief fell to his knees, and before he could defend himself, the same guy gave him a kick in the gut. A few moments later, while he was still getting his breath back, the two watchmen lifted him up by the arms.
“That was so you don’t get any ideas in there.”
Margarito picked up the bag and made his way inside as best he could. The one with the serpent’s smile followed him into the church and made sure he limped over to one of the middle rows, where the man in the black hat was conferring with his escorts in a low voice. The chief knew the tallest of them, a former Kaibil with two cauliflower ears, who was in charge of teaching new recruits all there is to know about terror. The Colonel sneered, revealing his canine teeth.
“Get a load of this punk.”
The three hit men stood and didn’t take their eyes off the chief the whole time he sat beside the fifty-year-old Colonel. Margarito scanned the cathedral and counted a total of twenty people scattered around: a few young couples, but mostly old or sickly women. When they saw the chief approaching, the three women nearest them stood and headed for the exit. The chief knew that when they got to the men standing guard at the door, they’d be told to go back where they came from. The church is closed, no one goes in or out. The priest, who was performing the introductory rites of the Mass with his back to the congregation, was unaware of the situation. El Coronel de los Muertos stared into Margarito as if he was giving him an X-ray.
“You kept me waiting a whole day,” he accused the chief in his raspy voice. “Our meeting was yesterday.”
The chief noticed that the bodyguard with the swollen ears was staring him down and had angled his torso toward him. There was another guy to the left of the Colonel, and two more standing behind Margarito, including the one with the smile.
“Your son stuck his nose where it didn’t belong,” the Colonel continued, then waited to see Margarito’s reaction. “But it wasn’t us. And you’ve got a lot of balls coming here to ask.”
The policeman gave the man a look that made it clear he couldn’t care less about what he said or did.
“I knew that already. I didn’t come here to ask questions.”
For the first time in a long while, the Colonel felt his authority being challenged. His men felt it, too, and even the giant with the cauliflower ears shifted his weight. The Colonel leaned in until he was face-to-face with the policeman and said, not caring whether the little old ladies sitting nearby could hear him: “I’m the one who raises the dead. I’m the one who chooses. One snap of my fingers and you’d end up worse off than your little friend Elijah. If I had wanted it, you’d have been taken apart already with machetes in the middle of the street. I don’t need to waste time with a man who’s already been sentenced to death.”
“I didn’t come here to waste time.”
The priest, who had caught part of the conversation, swallowed hard. The little old ladies prayed with particular fervor.
“You already know the Guatemalan’s specialty,” said the Colonel, referring to the former Kaibil with two cauliflower ears, who was looking at Margarito as if he was trying to figure out which part of his body to start with when the time came to break him.
The chief rested a hand on the pew in front of him.
“I’m here to offer you a deal.”
He opened the plastic bag and pulled out twenty-five thousand dollars from amid the trash.
The Colonel looked at the money, unfazed.
“I can get you more,” Margarito said, carefully setting the bag between them. “They’re offering fifty. It’s yours if I’m left alone long enough to catch a guy.”
The Colonel stared at him for an eternity.
“The people who killed your son aren’t with us. Someone outside our organization decided his fate, but we would have done the same thing if push came to shove. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Margarito said, tossing him the bag. “But I already knew that. If you want the other half, tell your people not to follow me or give me any trouble while I close this case.”
“Impossible. There’s too many of us, and not everyone’s in the barracks. We’ve got some gate-crashers, too, who do business on their own and give us a cut of every deal. Them, I can’t control.”
“I’m sure you can manage. I don’t want any hunting parties getting in my way—or my team’s—until this case is closed.”
“I can’t hold them off forever.”
“I just need time for two more meetings. Let’s say I’m asking for your help until dawn.”
The Colonel looked at him.
“Now, you tell me: do you know how to find a guy named Carlos Treviño? Used to be a cop …”
“Wish I did,” said Margarito, rolling his eyes toward heaven. “Swear to God.”
“I need him alive. This guy sneaked in somewhere he shouldn’t have and found some sensitive information. I think he’s working for the DEA or the marines. We want him alive and conscious. No one’s ever made it that far and gotten out alive.”
“And if someone’s helping him lie low, I’ll kill him myself.”
Margarito flashed him a big smile.
“You think the Cartel del Puerto sent him?”
“Why? What have you heard?”
“Let’s call it a hunch.”
“We took out twenty of their men this week. These stunts of theirs are getting to be a real pain in my ass. Anyway. What are you going to do?”
Keeping his eyes on the front of the church, where the priest was holding up a Communion wafer, Margarito answered: “I’m going to enforce the law. Even if that law is the Ley de Fugas.”
The Colonel didn’t move or say a word for a moment. Then he asked, “How did you know it wasn’t me who gave the order?”
“Because you’d be killing the goose that lays golden eggs—or one of a few. When you arrived, I’d saved up enough to grow old peacefully. Now I have nothing. First you asked me to stop selling stolen cars, which I did, as a gesture of goodwill. Then you asked me to help with the bars. Then you wanted me to pay you more and more, until you’d emptied my bank accounts. I never complained. All I’ve ever done is go along with you. You know I still have money coming in from my friends in the cartel and from other deals, and that interests you. You need the scratch to finance your little war.”
The Colonel stared Margarito down with a look intense enough to melt a candle.
“How do you plan to catch these guys, when you can’t even move? Not to mention that as far as I know you don’t have anyone around you that you can trust.”
“I’m not crippled. I just need to be able to move around without running into problems until nine in the morning, and there’s more in it for you if I can. Twenty-five thousand more.”
The bald man stroked his mustache.
“The last time I checked, your accounts were empty, which either means you’ve got it well hidden or it’s in an international back account. If it’s far away, I’m not interested.”
“It’s close, and you’ll have it in cash.”
“All right. But I want it in my hand, and this stays between me and you. Tomorrow at nine. Where?”
“In the bar where I saw you last time.”
“Don’t even think about standing me up, you hear me? And I’m not going to lift a finger for you after that. Stay sharp, because at nine o’clock you’re worth fifty grand again.”
“I’d better get going. My godson sends his regards.”
The Colonel hit him with a radioactive glare.
“That kid’s only alive because we want it that way.”
Margarito smiled.
“Well, he’s been going around saying you haven’t been able to get anywhere near him, and I get the impression that his neighborhood is a goddamn fortress. You haven’t seen the banners inviting you to take a tour of the place? They’re pretty funny.”
“All he’s managed has been to shoot a couple of fairies who thought they were tough. They weren’t trained by me.”
“I went by there yesterday and they’ve got an impressive army going. The place is impermeable.”
The bald man pointed a finger at his face.
“There’s only one army in this country, and it’s made of real men.”
“If you say so,” said Margarito, looking at his watch. “I’d better get going, I’m running out of time.”
He stood to go, but he must have gotten dizzy, because he careened sideways, toward where the bodyguards stood. The one with the thick mustache smirked as Margarito nearly collapsed, then barely moved when he tried to steady himself on him. That was his mistake. By the time the bodyguard realized what was going on, the chief had locked his good hand onto the man’s shoulder, straightened up a bit, and brought his knee up hard. The man with the thick mustache dropped to the ground. Seeing his other bodyguard reach for his weapon, the Colonel shouted, “Stand down!”
The man with the mustache got to his feet with difficulty, coming first to one knee, then the other. “Stand down, I said,” the Colonel repeated as the man with the mustache gasped for breath, his face so red it was almost purple.
“Don’t go looking for trouble, Margarito.”
“The cash I just handed you covers a little payback,” said Margarito before putting his hands in the air and smoothing his clothes. “My weapon, please.”
The man with the mustache reached into his waistband and handed Margarito the thirty-eight. From the pulpit, the priest yelled to them.
“Settle down back there. This is a church, not a boxing ring.”
Margarito said his good-byes with a gesture of his good hand.
He looked up as he left the church: the clouds had parted and a full red moon looked down over La Eternidad.
Completely worn out and dressed from head to toe in black, Dr. Antonelli turned her key in the lock. After closing the front door of her house, she flicked on all the lights in the living and dining rooms so each of her movements could be seen from outside, then went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She lit the stove and put water on to boil. Then she retraced her steps, turned off all the lights, and left the front door ajar. Deep in the shadows, Margarito took a moment to react.
He’d been out there a while sniffing the breeze for danger, but the only suspicious movement was coming from the fig tree, so he dashed from his hiding place to the house in just a few strides. She didn’t even turn around.
“What do you want?”
The first time he saw her, he’d felt the kind of rush that comes only in the presence of a new love. When you realize something good is about to start between you and the other person.
She had been wearing a colorful skirt, slit to the middle of her thigh. He figured she had to be a foreigner, because no one wore skirts like that in La Eternidad. He couldn’t take his eyes off her: her full, athletic thighs had a sun-kissed glow that would have made a peach jealous. He watched her climb a flight of stairs as if she were stepping onto a stage, her hair in a ponytail that fanned out to completely cover her back. She never could tame that thick head of hair. Her shoulders, made to be rubbed; a long, swan-like neck that instantly sparked his desire; the triangular shape of her back and wide hips that swayed so gracefully; those long, long legs. But three things, above all: feminine hands that never stopped moving—it was an incredible sight, the way they accompanied every shift, every comment, as if they were a shortcut to the essence of her thoughts—those round breasts that would fit so well in his hands, and that unique face of hers: sharp chin, high cheekbones, ample forehead, almond eyes. The first time he saw her, he thought, You’d need two artists to paint those lips, three sculptors to get the face right, a team of painters to reproduce the color of her skin, the light glinting off each strand of hair. Margarito didn’t know how to act around respectable women, and he felt a butterfly make its way from his knees to his throat. Just then, she stopped, straightened up as if an electric current had run through her, and turned to see who was staring at her so intently. Margarito swallowed hard and opened his mouth. She smiled and kept going, perhaps a little slower than before. He couldn’t follow her, though. He had to work. That evening he left early and went into tourist territory—the malecón, the beach, the bars, even La Eternidad’s most expensive restaurants—hoping to find her again, without any luck. He hated the false levity of the binge drinkers, the fake laughter of their friends, all the women who weren’t her that he saw in the street. He went to sleep upset.
He thought about her every day for eight days. He compared her with every actress he saw on the screen and concluded, That woman was more beautiful. Based on her clothing and the color of her hair, he’d guessed she was foreign. Maybe he’d seen her on her last day in the port and she was already back in her country. He changed his routine and started eating, drinking, and dancing at different hours. After two weeks, he gave up and went on an epic bender. It took two bottles of tequila and several ladies in heavy makeup to blur the memory of that mysterious woman. Of course, when he went out the next day in search of something to ease his hangover, he ran into her at a seafood stand in the market. She was with a group of friends. He was alone and in bad shape, looking disheveled and operating at half his typical lucidity. But the fog seemed to lift when he saw her. He smiled and went over to say hello as if they were old friends.
“May I join you, miss?” He’d never called anyone miss before.
She blushed and, to his surprise, nodded.
“I’m Italian,” she explained. “I came here to see your country.”
Margarito, a police officer who worked for the worst types of folk in the port, was a full-time roughneck. As he sat across from her, though, it seemed like it had all been arranged ahead of time. Everything went smoothly: she responded well to his questions and observations. She kept smiling at him, gazing at him softly from behind her glasses. Where did this girl come from? Why did it take her so long to find me? I know there’s going to be something big between us.
“What do you do?” asked the Italian.
“I’m a cop,” Margarito confessed.
She blew a perfectly vertical column of smoke into the air, as perfectly vertical as she was, and blurted out, “I thought you were a criminal.”
He shrugged.
“It happens. People get us mixed up all the time.”
She said good-bye to her friends and they went for a walk along the malecón. The sea rose and fell like a pounding heart.
A huge smile spread across her face when he took her hand and kissed her. Then she pulled him toward her and kissed him again. They leaned against a palm tree and before Margarito could ask, she said, “I just finished school and want to move to Mexico. I’m still deciding which city.”
Margarito was so happy he thought his chest might explode. Until she asked him what he thought of Monterrey. He was about to curse the capital of Nuevo León, but managed to contain himself.
“They say the people are nice and you can live well there. That there are plenty of universities and job opportunities for foreigners like me.”
“That’s what they say,” Margarito had replied, kicking a can.
“What’s it like to live near the sea?” The woman stretched out her arms to feel the breeze on her fingertips.
“Do you want me to tell you?”
“Yes.”
But Margarito’s hand was already running along her hot neck, the little beads of sweat forming under her thick blond hair, and she smiled. Margarito had thought to himself that a woman like this was what had been missing from his life. Just then, out of nowhere, she’d confessed: “I adore making love.”
Over the next six months, she’d convinced him to take the exams to graduate from middle and high school: Margarito bought the answers from one of the faculty beforehand. One day she seemed withdrawn. They’d recently had a fight. She locked herself in the bathroom for a long time and when she came out, she said, “I’m pregnant.”
Those who know say that Margarito never pulled a more perfectly idiotic face than he did that day. Unfortunately, it didn’t take the two of them long to go from I love you to If you were honest, you wouldn’t be a cop. From the fifth year on, they stayed together only for their son, but when even the kid doesn’t keep you from fighting, it’s time for the relationship to end. At first, the major differences between them had seemed unimportant, because love conquered all: She was a voracious reader; he only wanted to watch television. She was thinking of pursuing a doctoral degree; he barely had a handle on Spanish grammar. She would indulge in the occasional glass of red wine; he drank beer like water and could polish off a bottle of tequila on his own if the occasion called for it. She hated Mexican cigarettes; he loved his Raleighs. She watched what she ate and exercised every day; he claimed to have cut a deal with his arteries. She was incapable of touching someone else’s property; he, well, he was Margarito. That’s where the attacks began. Corrupt son of a bitch, thief, conceited animal, and his favorite: stronzo. His car became the stronzomobile. People would say, “There goes the chief’s wife. Only a naive foreigner could marry a guy like Margarito. But one day she’ll realize what a mistake she made and it’ll be: ‘Ciao, Margarito, hit the road.’” And so it was. One day he came home to find her in the front hall with divorce papers in hand.
“What do you want?” his ex-wife repeated, snapping Margarito back into the present. “What do you want and why are you here? Have you no heart?”
Dr. Antonelli’s question was unfair. Of course he was upset about Ricardo’s death. Had she forgotten who taught him how to walk, drive a car, clean and load a gun? Give me a fucking break. This job isn’t like other jobs: you walk out on a tightrope the minute you put on that badge, and you don’t come down until you die of natural causes or they pick you off with a bullet, because being a cop is forever. That’s what he wanted to say, but he didn’t. If anyone in the world was suffering right then, it was that woman.
“Shut the door, please. There’s a draft.”
The chief carefully closed the door and settled into the shadows next to the refrigerator. The first thing he noticed was the sweet scent of plantain empanadas. The memories came flooding back.
“I came to tell you it wasn’t me. I’m going to get whoever did this.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I had to tell you.”
“Who was it?”
When Margarito didn’t answer, she lifted her face from her hands and howled like a cornered animal: “Who was it?”
Margarito took a deep breath.
“I’ll get him. For our son.”
“Ricardo is dead. And they’re going to kill you too.” The kettle started to whistle on the stove, but the Italian didn’t seem to hear it. “You poor thing,” she went on, sarcastically. “The world has been so hard on you! You didn’t go to the funeral. You didn’t say good-bye to your son because you were out there doing your job.”
“I couldn’t go,” he explained. “I sent those soldiers. If I’d shown my face, I would have been shot. You have no idea how many people are after me. There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar price on my head.”
She looked up.
“I need to know what the two of you talked about these last few times. Right now everything matters in solving this crime. I haven’t asked you for anything in twenty years, but I’m begging you now. Please. Try to remember.”
His wife turned off the stove and poured herself a huge cup of hot water. She dropped in two bags of linden flower tea, collapsed onto the living room sofa, and took off her shoes. She took a long sip of the tea and fixed her eyes on the ceiling.
“Until around two months ago, he’d tell me how things were going with him and eventually ask me about you. It was always the same. Then we didn’t talk for a while. As you can imagine, I was surprised when he took this job. I had a hard time understanding that this was how we raised him: to be great at what he did and work for the good of others. The last time we spoke, I asked him if he wanted a special meal when he came back, and he said he wanted plantain empanadas. He was going to come over for dinner … I asked if he and his wife had reconciled. Did you know he and Laura weren’t living together? They separated when he took the job. She didn’t want to come back here, didn’t want him to risk his life. Poor Laura … She was always so wrong about Ricardo, but she was right about this. She’s coming tomorrow to say good-bye. I don’t know what I’m going to say to her.”
His wife rubbed her eyes: apparently the mildly soporific tea was taking effect. Margarito blinked and asked, “What else did he say?”
She didn’t answer.
“Sandra?”
“Hold on. I’m trying to remember.” The doctor closed her eyes and rested her head on the cushion behind her.
Just when the chief thought she’d fallen asleep and was about to leave, she spoke.
“He told me he was thinking of moving into one of the three luxury buildings they’re putting up along the beach, the ones with that flamingo sculpture. Someone offered him a good deal and he was thinking of buying the place when he got here.”
Deep in the shadows, Margarito opened his eyes wide. A moment later, his ex started snoring and he decided it was time to go. As soon as he started to move, she added, “Close the door behind you,” and kept snoring.
She’d said it peacefully, almost pleasantly. He hadn’t heard that tone of voice in nearly twenty years. Not since they were married and still lived together, back when she still thought her husband was a good person.
Maybe there was a better place in some corner of the dream she was having, one where the three of them still lived together, where Ricardo was happy and still alive. He left on tiptoe, not wanting to disturb that dream.
Margarito parked Panda’s car a few yards from his godson’s office, safe from prying eyes in the shadows of the red-light district. The only business there, aside from the three little bars for down-and-out types looking for a good time (La Lucha, Angel’s, Motel Flair), was a twenty-four-hour convenience store. In better days, there had been a dozen of these shops, and they could hardly keep up with the demand for condoms and alcohol from the patrons of the dives nearby; judging from the only customers visible from outside, they now made their money selling instant soup, heated up behind the counter, to a few rent boys, panhandlers, and hookers. The neighborhood had turned into a self-sustaining ecosystem: from the look of things, the kids hanging around the bars—the only other people who hung around there—were the offspring of the prostitutes who worked them.
Ten years ago, the hill facing the malecón teemed with activity. Ever since the red-light district became part of the turf war between heavily armed crews, though, people stopped spending time there. Especially the clueless tourists with a knack for losing their wallets. He turned the corner and saw an old prostitute flirting with a few drunken soldiers; one of them was carrying a gigantic bottle of Bacardi. Margarito found it all very depressing. What a hand she’s been dealt, he thought and immediately corrected himself. Who are you kidding, buddy—you’re not that much better off.
The place changed names every four years or so. It had been called Blue Skies, Arriba Juárez, the Wild Rose, the Captain, Mystic, Magic, Ramses, and, most recently, Manhattan—the unifying concept behind the gaudy decorative failure that was its current facade.
He’s nothing like his father, who hated drawing attention to himself. The infamous Tigre Obregón was far from the sociopathic monster the press made him out to be. On the contrary: he counted a district attorney, three representatives from the governing party, a senator, the leader of the national union of electricians, a secretary of the economy, and two governors among his closest friends. He also had strong family values, of course, and respected the noble institution of marriage: after all, he’d fathered nine children with five different women. At the turn of the millennium he suffered a stroke and handed control of the business, as he called it, to the most competent of his sons, the reckless Joel Obregón, godson to the chief. But there was a world of difference between Joel and his father.
Unlike his progenitor, the son started dipping into the organization’s product at a young age. Margarito couldn’t understand how he slept or kept his head enough to keep himself on the throne. Between the ages of twelve and fifteen, before he became a regular at luxury rehab centers (and long before he founded one of his own to ensure a pleasant stay), the only things he cared about were Ferraris. His horizon broadened when he turned twenty and discovered Lamborghinis. Then came the Porsches, and now it seemed he was on to Jaguars. When he finally developed a taste for girls and partying, both his father and the chief breathed a sigh of relief. Lately he’d been spending his days conceiving (and bankrolling) nightclubs known for their design in cities across Mexico.
Under the Statue of Liberty sketched in neon lights above Manhattan’s door, three guys watched Margarito approach. Their movements indicated they’d been partaking enthusiastically of the house special. They weren’t particularly tall or built, but, with their guns barely concealed under their shirts, they were the only ones smiling in that depressing place. As he got closer to the first bouncer, the chief flashed his badge.
“I’m with the guy who drives that Ferrari,” he said, pulling the velvet rope back for himself.
“Hey … hey!”
Margarito turned, and the bouncer flashed him a wide, wide smile.
“Aren’t you Chief Margarito?”
He didn’t stop to answer. He was already halfway inside when he heard: “How long you think it’ll be before the bullets start flying?”
He made an effort to keep himself from going back and laying the guy out. He didn’t have the time. Given what he was paying the Colonel, every hour cost him two grand. So he ignored the comment and headed straight into the club.
There weren’t twenty girls on the dance floor, but they were all euphoric. As always, the VIP table was set up right under the DJ booth, and there was his deadbeat godson, enjoying the company of four gorgeous teenagers, his entourage, and the sycophants du jour in their respective Panama hats. Margarito’s godson signaled to his bodyguards to let the chief pass, and Margarito walked over and sat in the space that had been cleared next to him.
“You have no idea how sorry I am, Padrino,” he said, giving the chief a hug and thumping him loudly on the back. Margarito nodded and examined the boy’s face. The boy rubbed his nose.
“Would you like something to drink?” Before the chief could respond, he’d already called over the waiter. “Bring him a tequila, from my personal stock.”
He looked at the grayish hue of Margarito’s face and his bandaged arm and patted him on the back again.
“I see you shaved. Looks good. How have you been holding up?”
“Hanging in.”
The four long-legged babes with him wore tight miniskirts, plunging necklines, and towering heels. Their manicures alone would be enough to keep a salon in business. When Joel finally figured out that the chief wasn’t going to talk in front of them, he gave them a nudge.
“Don’t you ladies wanna go dance a little?”
The tallest of them, a beautiful girl with sad blue eyes, stood and the others followed suit. The chief’s godson signaled the DJ and a wave of electronic music flooded the space. Clouds of dry ice swirled around the girls as they stepped onto the dance floor. The only ones who stayed were two guys with the look of hungry jackals sitting to the left of his godson. They’re just waiting for the right moment to strike. One of these guys is going to end up in charge.
The chief’s godson patted him on the back.
“C’mere, c’mere. I can’t hear you over there,” he said and turned to the first jackal. “You, Sticks, give my godfather here something to take the edge off.”
His subordinate opened a briefcase, pulled out a bag of cocaine, and placed it on the table. Margarito declined. His godson looked him over again.
“Your shoes are all worn out, Padrino. They’re ratty as fuck. Have you been walking everywhere?”
“I borrowed a car.”
“I saw on the news what they did to the one Papá gave you. Those fucking bastards. But don’t worry. They’re gonna pay for this. Pepe!” he shouted to the second jackal, “Give my godfather your truck.”
His assistant pulled a Ford key ring from his pocket and held it out to the chief, who declined the offer with another movement of his head. His godson was getting uncomfortable. More to feel the chief out than anything else, he asked, “What happened to your arm? And your face?”
“My shoulder got dislocated during the attack, and this”—he touched his face—“this was Los Nuevos.”
“You saw them?” asked his godson, a glimmer of lucidity finally flashing across his face. Margarito nodded.
“Let’s just say they called a meeting, and I couldn’t say no.”
“Son of a bitch.” Margarito’s godson sprang forward in his chair. “Why’d you go see that pack of mangy dogs, huh? You don’t trust me? You could’ve come here. We’d have taken care of you.” Then he added, under his breath, “The next time they call you, give me a heads-up. Whenever, wherever. You know I value that kind of information.”
The chief looked at his godson. He was running out of patience. This time it was Margarito who rested a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“And you, who runs such a large organization and who’s become so powerful, what have you heard about what happened?” His godson, visibly uncomfortable, tried to wriggle out from under the paw resting on his back.
“Did you come here to interrogate me?”
The jackal sitting closest to them shifted forward in his chair, and Margarito saw his hands drift toward the mother-of-pearl grips of the two guns sticking out of his waistband.
“What do you take me for, son?”
“It’s just that you seem pretty tightly wound, Padrino. Here, drink your tequila,” suggested his godson, taking the opportunity to put some distance between them. Margarito didn’t move or take his eyes off him, so his godson had a sip of his own drink.
“I haven’t seen much of you lately, Padrino. You wouldn’t happen to be cozying up to Los Nuevos, would you?”
Margarito shook his head.
“I risked my life to save your father, I got him out of jail. I was the only one there at his side when Los Nuevos rose up and the bullets started flying. I lost my reputation and my son to keep his business afloat. And now you can’t even answer a simple question for me.”
“Those fucking dogs,” the heir to the Cartel del Puerto said, shaking his head, as if the men who’d planned the attack that killed Ricardo were evil incarnate. “Who the hell would’ve thought things would get so bad here?”
“You haven’t exactly been standing on the sidelines.”
“Los Nuevos want to destroy us. We have to defend ourselves. Those fucking dogs. They started out working for us, licking my father’s boots. Then they decide to branch out on their own. You know my father always said we had to be invisible—only make our moves in the dark, like owls. That’s not an option anymore. There are too many people from other organizations out there, and they’re gaining ground. They’re out there during the day, threatening our dealers and our turf; they spread out and do whatever they have to do to get a foothold here. If they take La Eternidad from us, they control the route going north. The border. We have to defend ourselves.”
Margarito looked at him impatiently. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I’ll answer you. But give me your pistol first, Padrino.”
The chief noticed one of the jackals move a hand toward his gun, so he took out his piece with two fingers and placed it on the table.
“All right. Thanks, Sticks. Better safe than sorry. Look, Padrino. Two days ago, a man dressed in black with a thick mustache came by and had a talk with our head of security. He wanted us to recommend some guys for a job. They had to be Maras, from Guatemala. Now, hold on … He didn’t mention you at all, he just said he needed to straighten out an associate who wouldn’t listen to reason. That’s what he said. My head of security, I trust him completely, he asked me about it and I recommended a couple of Maras I’d worked with before. I had no idea you were the mark. We brought them in, made the introductions, and took our cut. That’s it. For us, it was just another transaction.”
Margarito struggled not to hit his godson. “Who hired them?”
His godson looked at him cheekily. “So you’re not angry?”
“I’m not angry. How could you have known?”
“Thanks, Padrino. I knew you’d understand, man-to-man.”
He motioned to the waiter, who immediately came over with another drink.
“Guy’s got money. We thought he was going after one of his associates; he’s done it before. Enterprise, Padrino. Papá always used to say it’s the root of all evil: if the guys running this country hadn’t just been looking to get rich we’d all be singing a different tune right now. Businessmen used to be wolves among men, but now they’re just jackals, fighting over the scraps. That’s enterprise for you. Bottoms up.”
As he finished his drink and looked out through the base of his glass, the godson noticed that everyone had joined in the toast except the old man, who hadn’t taken his eyes off him. Margarito didn’t speak, so he went on.
“Man, Padrino, I admire your restraint. Why don’t you stop messing around with the law? You see where that’s gotten you. Come work for us. We’ll take good care of you. This is a business, you know. We need all kinds.”
Margarito shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“No? And why not?”
Margarito stared him down. “What would the mother of my son think when she heard I agreed to go work for the men who hired his killers?”
His godson had no response. “So what are you going to do?”
“Go after them with the full force of the law.”
The boy’s jaw dropped. “Ricardo’s dead. You do get that, right? You know I’m really sorry about it, Padrino, and I never meant for it to happen … But listen, I’m worried about you. You know there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar price on your head, right? What are you going to do?”
Margarito finally lit the cigarette he’d been holding, inhaled deeply, as though he wanted to blow out another flame inside him. He released a thick white cloud between them. “I just told you. I’m going to lay down the law.”
The color drained from Joel’s face. “If you leave here, I’m afraid I can’t protect you,” he hissed. “Just so you know.”
“We’re all riding this wave, kid, and no one knows where it’s taking us.”
He noticed that the song was ending and the girls were on their way back from the dance floor.
“Who was it?” Margarito insisted as they got closer.
“I can’t tell you that. I’ve got my own principles to uphold, and that includes respecting private enterprise. Give him his gun back at the door,” he said, turning to the jackals, “and don’t let him back in.”
Margarito’s godson turned back toward the chief and looked at him as if he were watching a suicide walk straight into the ocean.
“Take care of yourself, Padrino. You already dodged a bullet once. Don’t let them get you.”
“You take care,” Margarito said, returning the embrace. “I saw the Colonel a while ago and he let something slip. I shouldn’t be telling you this, since you’re not helping me, but he’s getting ready to come at you with everything he’s got.”
“Are you sure?”
The kid and his cronies leaned in.
“He’ll start in Colonia Morales: he’s going to throw everything in his arsenal at La Cuarenta, and then he’s coming for you.”
“Son of a fucking bitch.” His godson stood and started pacing the floor. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Are you sure?” asked the most lucid-looking of Joel’s companions.
“That’s what he said. Something about a ‘final showdown.’”
“I told you!”
“Cabrón, you’re fucked for real.”
“Let’s go to the bunker!”
The next song came on, accompanied by a cloud of smoke, and Margarito slipped away.
As he stepped through the door he saw two of the bouncers headed toward him, guns drawn. He shot the closest one in the gut and leveled off at the other’s head. The man dropped his piece and burst out laughing.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, kneeling. “Sorry.”
Margarito cocked his gun.
“Why’d you try it?”
“No, please.”
“Why did you try it?”
“He talked me into it,” the man pointed at the first bouncer. “For the reward.”
Margarito pressed the barrel of his gun into the man’s forehead.
“Who put up the reward?”
“I have no idea! He was the one who knew about it.”
But the gut-shot dude’s eyes had already rolled back in his head. Margarito nodded, pulled his arm in slightly, and slammed the butt of his gun into the bouncer’s forehead. He crumpled to the ground.
“What’s going on out here?” his godson asked as he stepped outside, flanked by three men.
Margarito slid his piece into his waistband and looked over at the guy who’d taken a shot to the gut.
“Free enterprise.”
He scanned the street for unusual activity and, seeing none, climbed into Panda’s car.
“General? Do you have a minute?”
“Of course, Mr. Joel. At your service. What can I do for you?”
“How’s the family?”
“My family? Good, fine.”
“Your daughters?”
“Macorina is still studying in Berlin. You know what she’s like. Aureliana’s at Harvard, getting straight A’s.”
“That’s wonderful, General. Congratulations. You’re an excellent role model.”
“What can I do for you?”
“What are your thoughts on our friend?”
“A terrible thing, what can I say. What a waste. He was so young and had just gotten his first big break.”
“No, man. I’m talking about Margarito. All the rage he’s carrying around. I just spoke with him, and he’s just not thinking straight. There’s something about the way he’s acting. I don’t know if I can trust him. What do you think?”
The general let the wind die down before he answered.
“I don’t know … He’s going through a difficult time.”
“Exactly. He’s going through a hard time, and it’s making me nervous. Do you think someone as desperate, exhausted, and as far out of his mind as my godfather might do damage to my organization?”
The general swallowed hard. “I do.”
“All right. Let’s do something about it, then. No way are we gonna close the shop because of some screwup. Am I right?”
“Understood, Mr. Joel. I’ll handle it.”
“I fucking love the way you military types talk, you know that? Zero bullshit. Let me know when it’s done.”
“I will.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Talk to you soon.”
The general had barely hung up before his phone rang again.
“What’s going on, you little bitch? Why haven’t you been picking up?” It was the Colonel. “Where’s Margarito?”
“I have no idea.”
“Don’t lie to me or I’ll come over there and cut your balls off. What do you know?”
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”
“You’re taking too long to lay him out. Don’t play dumb with me,” he said and hung up.
The general let out a stream of profanities and punched the glove compartment. His phone rang again. The last thing he wanted to do was take another call, but he recognized the number and picked up.
“Hi, sweetheart. How are you? How’s everything over there?” He looked at his watch. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be awake? … Oh, I see …” And, a moment later: “But don’t you spend a lot of time with her? Why don’t you come home by yourself this time to see me and your mother? … Okay, okay. Forget I said anything. I’ll transfer the money for the tickets soon. See you at Christmas. Bye, sweetheart.”
The general slipped the phone into the pocket of his pants and shot a glance at his driver.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, General, sir.”
“Damn straight.”
Panda’s ride, still smelling of onion and chile, glided along a side street downtown. Bonfires had started all over La Eternidad: La Cuarenta, Los Viejos, and Los Nuevos were burning cars again. Some asshole had lit the fuse, and now they were going after each other with everything they had. Maybe now the good guys can move around this town freely, for a change.