Illuminated by powerful spotlights, the marble facade of the modern twenty-story building sparkled like a diamond in a display case. The structure was probably green certified, built for sustainability and engineered to take advantage of the area’s abundant solar energy. But everyone in La Eternidad knew it had gone up on protected land, right on top of a mangrove swamp whose rightful inhabitants had been driven out. They also knew that the financing for the project had come almost exclusively—always through roundabout and highly irregular channels—from the government, and that the apartments were going for several million dollars each. The stakeholders made a tidy profit, while—contrary to what had been promised—few to none of the proceeds were reinvested in the community or the creation of new jobs. What’s more, the bulldozing of the mangroves had affected several species on the brink of extinction, like the long-clawed spiny lizard; the black howler monkey, with its flowing mane and its habit of hurling avocados at anyone who invades its territory; the majestic white-tailed flamingo, which dances en pointe once a year to draw the attention of the female of the species; and the Frigga spider, which can jump up to five feet to deliver a bite. What made the whole thing even more scandalous was the fact that the developer, from one of the best families in the city, went around making a point of his respect for nature and wildlife. Yeah, right. Since the building went up, the only flamingos left in La Eternidad were the two metal sculptures standing in front of it.
Margarito chose a dark corner under the outstretched arms of an imposing walnut tree and parked the car. He took a deep breath before getting out: what mattered now was catching his quarry and squeezing him under the full weight of the law. He’d handle the girl afterward. It was hard to stay on top of both things, but not impossible, and he still had time left. It was only three, and the Colonel wouldn’t be looking for him until nine. He was sure if he got the ransom money by eight, he’d be able to make a deal for his life. But first, he thought, the law’s going to come crashing down on this bastard.
His sidearm was ready, and he was carrying handcuffs and a second magazine in his waistband, plus two grenades hidden up his pants leg. He took another deep breath. Justice will be served tonight.
He opened the car door and shut it behind him as quietly as possible. He hadn’t taken more than one step toward the building when he heard the familiar hum of a walkie-talkie a few feet up ahead. He hung close to the wall around a nearby home and studied the darkness. Before he could locate the source of the sound, a guy in a security guard’s uniform came out of nowhere. He drew on Margarito, who did his thing and shot first, emptying almost an entire magazine at him. The problem was that there were two more guards right behind the first one. Margarito ducked behind the flamingos to reload and figure out how to drop the newcomers when something slammed into the base of his skull. Before checking out, his brain managed to comment that someone must have been playing baseball nearby. He felt the ground slide out from under his feet, and a moment later the world was upside down.
They took him to a room as small and dark as a coffin. He felt two ocean currents pulling him into the depths. Fuck ’em, he thought. No one’s gonna drag me around. He kicked his imaginary legs with all his strength and was overcome by relief when his toes finally touched the ground. All he could make out was the surf crashing against the coast. But he understood what was really going on as soon as he opened his eyes.
What he’d thought was the surf crashing against the coast was actually a pair of bodyguards giving his rib cage a brutal working over, undeterred by the fact that he was lying semiconscious on the floor. He tried to get up to dodge the blows, but his attackers were always a step ahead, kicking his legs or stepping on his fingers before he could stand.
He told himself that if he could just grab one of the aggressors’ legs in midkick, he’d be able to knock him over. I could get him with a head fake. But when the opportunity to launch himself at them arose, he realized his body wasn’t responding the way it did before, or it responded with things he hadn’t asked for, crumpling into a heap when he’d wanted to stand or move gracefully aside. So he rolled over as best he could and focused on curling up in a ball when he sensed a kick coming.
Eventually he watched one of his attackers take a few steps back and, with a running start, aim a kick at his temple.
He was happy, way down there in the depths, until an icy liquid soaked his face and neck and there was light.
He was in the living room of a fancy apartment. One he already knew. The first face he recognized belonged to a beast in a leather jacket: Bracamontes, his second in command, who was standing next to the bar with his arms crossed. Next to him, seated on a black leather sofa, was another man; he gradually made out the features of the former congressman, senator, and founder of the environmentalist party, and current mayor of La Eternidad: Mr. Tomás Cárdenas Vidaurri. The one with the lovely locks and pouty lips. The politician observed him from where he sat.
“He’s coming to.”
“I didn’t tell you to kill him.”
“It’ll take more than that to kill him,” the Block assured him from behind Margarito. “Old dogs have thick skin.”
“Hello, Your Honor,” said Margarito. “I knew I could count on you.”
A man in black limped up behind the mayor. He wasn’t carrying an Uzi or riddling Suburbans with bullet holes, but Margarito recognized him right away.
“Nice limp you’ve got.”
The man in black picked up a baseball bat and hit Margarito in the bad arm. The chief writhed in pain.
“Enough, enough,” the mayor said, crossing his legs. “So, what’s up, Chief? Why are you trying to break into my home?”
Margarito glared at him.
“Have you already forgotten what you said to me yesterday? ‘I’ve got bullets here with your name on them.’”
The mayor scowled. Then he stood, walked over to the bar, and pulled out a bottle full of a honey-colored liquid.
“I met your son when I started on the campaign trail. I threw a dinner party to introduce him to my advisers, and he promised to restore order around here. I really thought he could do it. I’d heard his situation in Canada wasn’t ideal, so I told him I’d be happy to facilitate his transition back to the port. You know what he said? That he was going to help you. He knew that Los Nuevos were giving you trouble, that you’d distanced yourself from Los Viejos, and that La Cuarenta weren’t too fond of you, either. I eventually convinced him to arrest you: he thought you’d be safest behind bars, given how many people are after your hide. He was sure it would be the best thing for you, sending you to a maximum security prison. Of course, he asked me to find work for your drivers so they wouldn’t be fired so abruptly. I told him I would. The deal was only going to last a few minutes, after all.”
Margarito managed to sit up a bit. He searched for something to defend himself with, but came up empty.
“The city’s worse than it’s ever been, but it’s a passing phase. We’re just waiting for the right moment. We needed a martyr, someone who would give his life to bring peace to the port, someone to be the last innocent authority in the region. I picked Bracamontes to be your successor and thought your son would do nicely as the martyr. I’ve always believed change should be absolute: otherwise, it’s not change. Your son is dead, but you survived, and the situation demands another sacrifice. Someone has to pay for the crime, and it’s best if that person is you. Just do as Bracamontes and his colleagues tell you. Don’t try to fight it.”
The mayor held the bottle up to the light and opened it.
“Three years ago, I had a shot at the presidency. I was seen as a dedicated, educated young man who spoke English well. I showed the dinosaurs I could follow orders and keep their bank accounts fat. By the time of that ill-fated get-together in my building, my name was one of two being tossed around as likely candidates for the presidency. And it was the ruling party that was going to nominate me, not my own. Can you imagine? I was going to be the first president from this part of the country. But you put an end to all that when you insisted on investigating that girl who fell to her death during that party my friends organized for me. You didn’t think twice about calling the press, airing the details of the case, making me look like a conceited ass who orders European prostitutes from local thugs. I still regret trying to reason with you. ‘If you help me out,’ I said, ‘I’ll make it worth your while. Hide her,’ I said. ‘Send her back to her country, take her for a swim in the Gulf, toss her to the crocodiles.’ But you wouldn’t listen. I offered you money, power, but here we are: if I’m lucky, I’ll hold on to the mayorship of this town, because they’re never going to let me run for any real office again. I accepted the mayorship like a consolation prize, thinking that at least I could do a little business. I promised myself that if I was going down, you were going first. Yesterday was just a preview. Today I’ll make sure you die the way you lived and that you’re remembered as the scum who killed his own kid. Get him out of here, Bracamontes. Finish him off in the sierra. And see to it that someone cleans the floors. Look at this mess.”
As if Margarito were already gone, the mayor fumbled with the bottle until he got it open.
“This whiskey is thirty years old,” he said, serving himself a generous pour. “Same age as your son, no? Let’s see how it tastes.”
Margarito watched him breathe in its fragrance.
“Take him.”
As Bracamontes and the Block lifted the chief roughly to his feet, El Braca whispered into his ear: “Just wait till we get out to the sierra.”
They were dragging him out of the building when he heard shouts: “Drop your weapons!” The Block and Bracamontes let go of their quarry and tried to draw their guns. Margarito saw them fly through the air as he fell to the ground. His hands were still over his ears when someone leaned over him.
“Goddammit, Margarito. You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
It was General Rovirosa.
“I recorded the whole thing. We’ve had an eye on him for months. Some very powerful people want to bury this guy alive. You were lucky my team saw you arrive, but you rushed our operation a bit. Care to join me? I’m going up to have a civilized chat with him. He’s got a choice: he can either walk himself to prison on his own two hooves, or take a swan dive off the building, like that girl. You coming?”
Margarito shook his head. “What time is it?”
“Six thirty.”
His letter of safe passage was about to expire. “Take me over to that car.”
“That heap? Are you sure? Now I really think you need a doctor. The city’s in chaos, they’re burning cars in every neighborhood. It’s all we can do to keep things from escalating. It’s not a good idea for you to be going around like that.”
“I have an important appointment to keep. Just get me my phone and keys.”
“You don’t want us to drop you off? Wait just a minute and I’ll take you myself.”
“No. I’m running late, and I have to go alone.”
“All right. Someone lend him a jacket. Here are your keys. Now where the hell, may I ask, are you going? There are armed men all over the city looking for you.”
“This is where we part ways, General. Don’t try to follow me.”
“All right. You know what you’re doing. But we’re even now. Got that? If you were smart, you’d get out of the city.”
“I’ve got some things to take care of first.” Margarito could barely speak. Just as he was about to get into the car, the general added: “I deserve a cut, don’t you think?”
The police officer turned to see Rovirosa put his glasses on, look at him, then put them back in his pocket.
“Go on, it’s getting late.”
He struggled to get into Panda’s car and called Roberta with the last juice in his cell phone.
“I’m just calling to thank you. For everything. The way things are going, I don’t expect to see you again. So, thanks, kid.”
Roberta started to cry.
“Where are you, Chief? We’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Get somewhere safe and we’ll come find you!”
“There’s no need for that, kid. Thanks for everything you’ve done. You’re a better cop than I am.”
“Boss, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Right then, his battery died.
He finally made it to Shark Bar, his favorite spot in La Eternidad. It had been months since the last time he’d settled in under the establishment’s giant awning. As soon as he got out of the car, he noticed the few people still in the streets at that hour—drug dealers and underslept thrill seekers—backing away from his unsteady walk and bloodstained clothes. He was grateful the place was open as usual. He pushed open the bar’s wooden doors and headed inside.
Only two of the bar’s tables were occupied. At the first, a group of tourists had made their way through three bottles of vodka. At the second, he saw Fearless Juan, the reporter so fond of criticizing him, with a few of his colleagues. Everyone turned toward Margarito when he walked in.
“Welcome, boss,” said the owner, Don Omar, as he stepped out from behind the bar to greet him. He was unfazed by Margarito’s swollen face. It wasn’t the first time he’d shown up looking like that.
“I’m so sorry about your son, Chief. Can I get you a drink?”
Margarito almost smiled at the sight of the tiled walls and the giant stuffed and mounted shark that had been hanging from the ceiling for more than thirty years.
“How have you been, Don Omar?”
“Just fine. At your service. Have a seat. Are you feeling all right?”
Just as he was about to answer, Fearless Juan wobbled over to talk to him. Margarito could barely understand what the man was saying.
“Chief … Cn I ask you uh quessstion?” The reporter was blind drunk.
“Go ahead.”
The bar went absolutely quiet. Not even a fly buzzed at the table where the reporters were sitting. Far from getting angry, Margarito just looked wearily at the reporter.
“Pinche Juanito. I thought you had a question for me. There’s not much to say. You’ll find out all about the thing in a bit. They’re going to hold a press conference.”
The chief sat down at the next table over. The reporter stumbled and looked like he might fall over, but he caught himself on the table.
“If you donn mind, theressomething I have to tell you.”
“Juanito, leave the chief alone. You’re drunk,” one of his companions shouted.
“Go on.”
“I met one of your es-girlfriens. Miss Azucena.”
Margarito scowled, but let him continue.
“She got married, n took the guy’s lasname. You look for her under her old name, you’ll never find her. And there’s something you dunno.”
“Get to the point.” Margarito was on edge. Los Nuevos might show up at any minute.
“Misssazucena had your baby. But she never told you. I dunno wha she named him, but I know he worked with you, and wanned to get to know you, but you didn’t want. Miss Azucena told me tha … that he was a really smart … But you two diddn get along. And so he left. Quit.”
The reporter fell silent and rubbed his eyes. His friends took advantage of the moment to stand and grab his arms.
“Let’s go, Juan.”
“See you, Boss Margarito,” the reporter added before the group left the bar.
The chief was trying to remember which of his men had suddenly quit on him when Don Omar interrupted him.
“What can I get you, sir?”
Margarito looked at his watch. It was seven thirty.
“Tell me something, Don Omar. Have I been a good customer all these years?”
“Of course! What kind of question is that?”
“So you’d rent me the bar for a private party?”
“Of course! When?”
“Right now.”
“Caray! I wasn’t expecting that. What would you need? Food? Snacks? Waiters? I’m not sure if I can get everything ready right away.”
“I just need you to clear out the place and leave it open for me. Send everyone home. Right now.”
The owner looked at his bloodstained clothes with concern.
“How many are you expecting?”
“Just a few, but they can get rowdy. I’d like to pay in advance for any inconvenience they might cause.”
Margarito passed him the roll of US currency he’d been hiding.
“This is too much,” the owner replied. “What kind of party do you plan on having?”
“Nothing fancy.”
The old man paled when he saw the police officer set his gun on the bar.
“Well, around here the customer is always right. When should I plan to come back?”
“In an hour. Before you go, would you make me a Conga? I had one the first time I came here, and it was delicious.”
“With pleasure, boss.”
“You have five minutes.”
Three and a half minutes later, Don Omar served him what looked like a crystal ball with different colors swirling inside.
“Is this how you remember it?”
“Just like that, boss.”
The old man headed for the door. Before he left, he grabbed a photo of himself with a famous actress who visited his bar that one time.
“Adiós, Chief.”
“Adiós, Captain.”
The waiters and the tourists followed him out.
Margarito was alone, and the light coming in from the beach refracted through his glass to form a rainbow on his white shirt. Incredible. For a moment, all the meaning and mystery of the universe seemed to be focused right there in front of him.
At five minutes to nine he nearly shot two guys who walked through the front door looking fairly lucid and gave the bar a once-over. They stopped short when they saw Margarito’s gun.
“Is the bar open?”
“Go fuck yourselves. Get the hell out of here.”
They backed out without taking their eyes off him.
Margarito thought about how much the beach had changed. Fifteen years ago, it was almost all families who came here.
He remembered the time he’d brought his son to that same beach, long before the buildings and restaurants went up on that part of the malecón. When the bar with the thatch roof and its little stretch of sand was a favorite local hangout. That was another life, he thought. Another incarnation. Before he fell into infamy.
Back then, on one of those afternoons, they’d seen a man eagerly taking pictures of something in the sand. A crowd of gringos huddled around the photographer, emitting squeals of delight. Margarito and five-year-old Ricardo, who had been playing in the sand, went over to see what was going on.
In front of the photographer there was a small pit, and inside that, a red pail filled with water and sand. The gringos leaned over it, rapt and beaming. Margarito’s wife ran up to get a look at what was in the pail.
A large black splotch formed by smaller splotches swirled at the bottom. Margarito thought they must be crabs.
“They’re turtles,” said his wife.
At first Margarito thought the güero was fixing to rob them, so he was surprised when he identified himself as a marine biologist from the University of California. Oh, I get it, he thought. He’s one of those crazy gringos who camp out at the end of the beach and say they’re here to help. They’d been there for a week.
“They were born this morning,” he told the onlookers. “Now we have to help them reach the sea.”
He pointed to the pit.
“Eighty of them didn’t make it out. Only these little guys are left.”
Ricardo peered into the magnificent red pail, teeming with life.
The güero—a skinny man with a big nose and long, fine hair—pointed to the sky.
“There are too many birds right now. We have to wait until it gets dark, so they have a better chance of surviving. It won’t be long. The sun’s already starting to set.”
So it was. Shadows were falling over the hills of La Eternidad.
When he saw how fascinated Margarito’s son was by the contents of the pail, the man leaned over and asked, “Would you help me with one of the turtles?”
Ricardo, who was very shy at the time, nodded.
The güero knelt in front of the pail, picked up a turtle between two fingers, and handed it to the child.
“Hold it like that, right around the belly, with just your fingers.”
His son, transfixed, watched the tiny creature wriggle its four obsidian limbs.
“Don’t be scared. They don’t bite or scratch.”
Ricardo looked up at the güero and then at his mother, whose neon green bathing suit accented her cinnamon skin in the last rays of afternoon sunlight. Margarito had been so happy then.
“Go on, son,” his wife said, smiling.
Ricardo held the turtle with both hands. The güero pointed toward the frothy sea.
“Take him to the water and let him go, so he can swim home.”
But Ricardo seemed shaken. He looked up and out at the horizon, the darkness that was settling over the bay.
“What about his mom?”
“His mom is far away. He has to go find her.”
The boy studied the waves crashing against the rocks closest to the shore.
“Let him go,” the güero repeated.
Ricardo shook his head.
“Go on, son, let him go,” urged his mother. But the boy shook his head again and held the turtle close to his chest, so she leaned over him and asked quietly, “Why don’t you want to let the turtle go? Are you afraid something will happen to him?”
The boy pursed his lips, nodded, and burst into tears.
“He’s all alone … He’s going to die.”
His mother tried to calm him, but Ricardo went on hiccupping as though someone had just told him he was going to be left alone on the beach too. What the fuck, thought Margarito. The man who was about to be La Eternidad’s chief of police for nearly thirty years felt the need to assert his authority, so he leaned over and grabbed the boy’s arm.
“Listen to the man or you’ll catch a beating.”
“No.”
Ricardo tried to back away, hoping that everything—his parents, the güero, the whole universe conspiring against them—would disappear and that someone, something would come to the rescue of him and that turtle.
“Don’t scare him.”
His wife grabbed his arm, making him let go of the boy.
“Oh, God,” said the güero, trying not to cry. “This always happens. May I?”
The man walked calmly over to the boy, leaned over, and said something to him that his parents couldn’t make out. First, the boy shook his head furiously. Then his expression turned serious and he looked up at the güero and the water behind him. He walked toward the shore and slowly put the turtle down on the sand. The animal scurried away as if it had just been released from prison. Ricardo watched the little black dot drag itself across the sand and then let itself be carried away by a sliver of wave. The dot floated there for a while before reaching the part of the sea where everything gets dark, and they couldn’t see it anymore. The boy stood there looking out over the water, and the güero went back to his pail.
“What did you say to Ricardo?” Margarito’s wife asked. “How did you convince him?”
“Oh, it’s something you pick up with experience. I told him if he let the turtle go, he’d be his friend for life and would come back to say thank you. It’s true. Did you know they always come back to the beach where they were born? They travel the whole world, but they always come back. If they survive, of course. Only one in a hundred does.”
Margarito watched his son for a long time. His wife was upset too. If she had any idea about what he’d lived through as a kid. He came from a world where you didn’t hang out on the beach playing with turtles like some sissy. The opposite, actually: you had to be faster than a hare.
At five past nine the sun flooded into the bar, filling it with flashes of light and unexpected colors. Who would have thought? All these years coming to this dive, and I’m just now figuring out how much nicer it is in the morning.
That’s when he noticed the silence.
Something was up. They’re outside. It won’t be long now. He wondered if he should receive them seated or standing. He decided to remain seated with his back to the concrete column, not because it offered protection, but because that was his table and he wanted to wait for them there.
He was still holding his weapon, still aiming it at the street. His arm was getting tired.
Someone knocked on the door. He pricked up his ears and confirmed it wasn’t his imagination. Oldest fucking trick in the book. If they’re trying to distract me, they may as well just come in. I’ll be waiting right here.
But the knocking went on for a few minutes more. Annoyed, Margarito got to his feet.
It was nine forty.
With his weapon in hand, he tiptoed to the door. He wasn’t expecting what he saw: a young woman was putting the finishing touches on her three-year-old’s turtle costume. A little parade of schoolchildren dressed up as different types of animals was already half a block ahead of them. The boy was out there knocking on the door for fun. When he saw Chief Margarito’s terrifying figure behind the door, his eyes opened very wide and he stopped knocking right away. His mother, whose back was to the chief, never saw Margarito at the door. She was focused on getting her little one ready.
“Hurry, or you’ll be late,” she chided.
And then she left, dragging her turtle by the hand. Margarito sat back down and rested his elbows on his favorite table.
The gun was so heavy he laid it down on the metallic surface of the table for a moment. Goddamn it, I can’t take another minute of this. I’m Chief Margarito, he thought. And I’m going to die. Here come the turtles.
Last conversation in the dark
“Did you hear what happened?”
“I’m afraid to ask. What now?”
“Nothing. The girl’s home with her parents, and guess who collected the ransom?”
“I don’t want to know. Margarito?”
“Yes and no.”
“Cut the crap. Did he collect or not?”
“Collect, collect. If you mean Did he collect the money, then, no. Listen. Ten thirty came and went, and no one had gone looking for Margarito. The only person who showed up at the bar was Don Omar, the guy that runs the place. He went by to see if the party had ended yet. When he saw Margarito fast asleep with the widow-maker next to him on the table, he gave him a shake and asked if he wanted to call a taxi, told him he should go get some rest. Margarito woke up, totally out of it, looked at his watch and realized that the Colonel, who decides who’ll be taken and who’ll be forgiven, wasn’t coming for him. That he’d fallen asleep and was dreaming.”
“The Colonel’s never late, though.”
“Exactly. Margarito knew that too. So he headed straight to the secret lockup he had over behind the church, you remember? He lit out of that bar like the devil was after him, cutting between the burned-out cars the two warring organizations had left behind the night before, probably kicking himself for not going there first. As soon as he got out of the car, the nuns ran up to him, terrified and shouting. They’d heard shots out back, behind the chapel. He didn’t like the sound of that at all, so he hobbled as fast as he could toward the dilapidated safe house. When he got there, his worst fears were confirmed: the front door was open and the place was empty, except for La Muda, who was chained up. Treviño and the girl were gone, and the place still smelled of gunpowder.”
“La Muda really is a hostage by nature. The whole world ties her up and pushes her around.”
“Margarito untied her and when he looked around, he saw that Treviño had taken the assault rifle.”
“Then what?”
“Margarito searched the place with his thirty-eight drawn and figured out that Treviño had set a fire. Who knows how he did it, but he found a way to light the mattress with the few things he had on hand. With all the smoke, La Muda had to open the door to see what was going on. She’s not new to this. She followed procedure, but Treviño was still able to hit her with the door and subdue her. Not that it was easy work: it looked as though she fired the rifle and they fell to the floor. Judging by the state of her hands, Margarito figured that Treviño had probably needed to break a few of her fingers to disarm her. Then he chained her up and went for Cristina. I’ll be damned, Margarito thought. All that work, for nothing. The mattress was still smoldering, so he figured the detective couldn’t have gotten far. He untied La Muda and went looking for a telephone: he was going to call La Gordis for help. He was just turning the corner, angrier than he’d ever been, when he saw the side door of the convent, where the nuns keep their old Volkswagen, being swung open by Treviño himself. He’d covered the girl in a habit and put her in the passenger seat, and they were about to make their escape. Margarito drew on him, but Treviño was faster. ‘Don’t move,’ he said, aiming the rifle at him. Then he cracked half a smile and added, ‘Toss me the thirty-eight.’ Margarito was so furious he thought it might kill him, but he handed over his weapon. Still smiling and without taking his eyes off Margarito, Treviño got into the car and closed the driver’s side door. Aware that his money was driving away with them, Margarito said, ‘You won’t make it across town on your own, Treviño. You need my help.’ But the detective shook his head and started the motor. Only when the car was in motion did he lower the rifle. ‘See you never, Chief.’ And then he and the girl were gone. Treviño was in pretty bad shape. He’d been hit, kicked, and tortured. But he managed to cross the city. They say he was paid, that the family handed over the money they’d promised, and that Treviño barely gave it a second glance, like he didn’t care about it anymore. Eventually, he took the dough, got into the nuns’ car, and no one’s seen him since.”
“That dude’s got some serious luck.”
“Not really. Did you hear they burned down the Hotel de las Ballenas that same day? The place he ran with his wife? No one knows what happened to her.”
“Shit, tough break. That’s what he gets for coming back, I guess.”
“But that’s not all.”
“I know. They promoted La Gordis: she’ll be the first female police chief in this part of the country. You’ve gotta have a real set of brass ones to take that job, the way the city is these days, right?”
“She can handle it. And get this: they’re pinning a medal of honor on La Muda for her service on the force. They’re saying that without her, the kidnapping never would have gotten solved.”
“Seriously? She’s police?”
“For ten years, already. Every now and then she’d help the chief out with a side operation, as Margarito put it. Who do you think found the spot where they were keeping the girl?”
“What I didn’t like was what happened to El Coronel de los Muertos.”
“Tell me about it. Who’d have thought he’d end up caught in the cross fire between his people and the other organization?”
“I mean, he’s not bulletproof. That’s why he never made it to his meeting with Margarito. Did you know his truck wasn’t even armored? I saw his body myself.”
“And what about the godson?”
“It seems a light went on upstairs for the first time. Instead of standing by his people, the kid hopped on a private jet to Mexico City. Looks like he hooked up with a pretty big player in exchange for agreeing to bankroll his presidential campaign. It doesn’t look like the feud between the old and the new guard will be ending anytime soon.”
“So nice to know there’s justice in this land.”
“They’re turning Margarito into a national hero. Seven million people have already seen the video of him protecting his son. If only they knew the skeletons their angel has in his closet.”
“Yeah, well. The bad thing about this country is that we have a terrible memory.”
“Get this, though. The best part? He’s been named the director of a regional anti-kidnapping institute.”
“That’s it. This city’s about to get intolerable. I’m sending myself into exile.”
“Don’t go anywhere. This is about to get good. Anyway, we have to pay our respects to Margarito, like everyone else. There’s a religious service later today in memory of his son, since he couldn’t make the other one. At the Sagrado Refugio de los Pescadores. He’ll probably send some work our way sooner or later, now that he ended up without any muscle. Who knows, maybe we’ll even be able to come out of the shadows. What do you think, should we send a wreath or a bouquet?”