Oro del Mar is a small fish cannery on the waterfront in Barranquilla, Colombia. Don Ernesto’s ’63 Lincoln with the suicide doors was parked with the battered trucks of the fishermen.
At a conference table on the top floor, Don Ernesto was talking with J. B. Clarke of Houston, Texas, and the plant manager, Señor Valdez. The Don was helping with a start-up. Two plates of snails and a bottle of wine were on the table. Gomez, too large for his chair, sat where he could see the door, fanning himself with his hat. His role was bodyguard, but Don Ernesto tolerated his advice.
Clarke was an ad man. He opened his portfolio. “You tell me you want advertisements that suggest exclusivity and prestige. Words like ‘prestigiosos.’”
“Caracoles Finos y Prestigiosos,” Don Ernesto said. “Would that fit on a label, or is it too long?”
“It will fit. I’m on top of that.” Clarke took out drawings of can labels. One of them featured the Eiffel Tower and the legend “Caracoles Finos,” another had “Fine Escargots” and a French motif. Another had a chateau in the background and in the extreme foreground a snail on a stem. All the labels said “Packaged in Colombia.”
“Why does it say ‘packaged in Colombia’? Why not say ‘packaged in France’?” Gomez said.
“Because that’s against the law,” Clarke said. “You’re packing them right here, am I right? The French motif is a sales device.”
“Yes, that would be unethical, Gomez,” Don Ernesto said.
“You could use the Honduran song ‘Sopa de Caracol’ in commercials,” Gomez suggested.
“It isn’t French,” Clarke said.
“The labels will have animal glue on them. Will we have to lick them?” the plant manager asked.
“No, Señor Valdez. After we test-market we will buy a labeling machine,” Don Ernesto said. “You just can them. Show me the shells.”
Valdez lifted a box onto the table. He took out a handful of snail shells and put them on the table.
Gomez smelled one and wrinkled his nose. “They smell of old butter and garlic. The restaurants don’t wash them before they throw them out, they just scrape the plates.”
“We tried soaking them but the Clorox dims the color,” Valdez said.
“Try Fab, with lemon-freshened borax,” said Gomez, a bachelor.
Don Ernesto pushed the drawings away. “Señor Clarke, I want you to put something simple and elegant on the label. A candle, a woman’s hand on the stem of a wineglass. I want you to convey … you serve these high-class snails to a lady and she will see you for the man you are.”
“And maybe she will give you some gatita dulce as soon as she finishes the snails. That means ‘pussy,’” Gomez explained.
“He knows what it means,” Don Ernesto said. “Now, Valdez, which of these snails are the real French?”
“The green plate.”
“Ah, then one plate has the finest French snails, the other is from our own production. You can see the two appear identical. And I believe there is no difference in the dining experience. Shall we try them?” Don Ernesto said.
Everyone appeared apprehensive.
Valdez said, “Permiso, Don Ernesto, if it is possible—”
“That’s why we brought Alejandro. Get him, Gomez.”
Don Ernesto selected a French snail from the green plate and made a production of eating it as Gomez returned with Alejandro, a man of about thirty-five. Alejandro wore a straw Borsalino hat, an ascot and a flowing pocket square.
Don Ernesto put his shell onto the blue plate. “Alejandro is a man of the world and a distinguished gourmand and food critic. And, Mr. Clarke, Alejandro has friends at all the shelter magazines.”
Alejandro took a seat and shook hands with Clarke. “Don Ernesto is very kind. I just enjoy my meals and some people think I’m a grape nut.”
Don Ernesto poured him some wine. “Clear your palate, my friend. First, try the escargot native to the south coast of Provence, in France.”
Don Ernesto proffered the French snails.
Alejandro worked one around in his mouth. He took a swig of wine and nodded his head vigorously.
Don Ernesto offered an example of his own production.
“And now, those of Brittany, also in France.”
Alejandro dug it out of the shell and chewed and chewed. “The flavor is similar, Don Ernesto, but the second batch have more … texture, and the flavor is a bit more insistent.”
Gomez was seized with a sneezing fit and had to cover his face with the fat end of his tie.
“Would you buy them?” Don Ernesto said.
“I would actually prefer the first sample, but if I couldn’t get that, yes, I’d buy the second one. The second group of snails has been purged in chlorinated water, I think—there is the slight chlorine aftertaste that I find so vexing in city water. You might address that with the Brittany people.”
“Would you say the texture is sensual, should we emphasize what you wine experts call ‘mouthfeel’?”
“Definitely,” Alejandro said. “Mouthfeel, the texture sensual, the flavor insistent.”
“Conceptually, that’s the direction we are taking,” Clarke said. “I’m thinking a lip card for the grocery store shelves. Something like ‘C’est si bon—get it on!’”
“Mr. Clarke, Alejandro, pour yourselves a glass of wine to take with you, and I will meet you at the cars.”
Gomez filled his glass. “This wine could be more insistent,” he said.
Valdez unlocked the door to the workrooms and locked it again behind him after he and Don Ernesto and Gomez had passed through.
Don Ernesto spoke into his ear. “In Gonaïves I may need to transship something heavy. Your deck tackle will need to lift maybe eight hundred kilos. You lift it off a boat and put it on a truck. You take it to Cap-Haïtien and put it on an airplane. You will need a forklift at the airport.”
“Big airplane.”
Don Ernesto nodded. “DC-6A.”
“Does it have the good lift at the cargo door?”
“Yes.”
“Is the dolly inside or will we need one?”
“It has the dolly. The plane will be loaded with some dishwashers and refrigerators, with a gap among them where my item will go. It is important that it has that exact position in the load. I can give you maybe eight days’ notice. It’s possible the load may go from airplane to boat instead, depending.”
“En su servicio, Don Ernesto. And the papers?”
“Leave customs to me.”
Across the back of the room was a production line similar to a poultry processing plant. Dead rats hung by their tails from a moving line. Among the rats was the odd opossum. Women skinned the animals and took filets. A hand-operated stamping machine, ornate and nickel-plated, cut three fake snails from each filet.
“I paid twelve thousand euro for that machine in Paris,” Don Ernesto said. “It has been making snails since the time of Escoffier. Another template for stamping cat meat came with it at no extra charge. Some people think gato approximates snail even better than these organic rodents do.”
Don Ernesto picked up a clipboard and checked something off.
Gomez was singing to the tune of a famous soup jingle:
“Gato to gatita, yum yum yum!”
As they left the building, Gomez handed Don Ernesto a black tie and a mourning armband. “Easier to put on here than in the car,” he said.
They left the Lincoln at the cannery and traveled in an armored SUV driven by Paolo. They were going to the funeral of Jesús Villarreal.
In the car Don Ernesto took two guarded telephone calls, one from Paco in Medellín. Paco alone had made the airplane in Miami after the shooting on the Miami River, and he had ridden home beside three empty seats.
Was Hans-Peter Schneider dead? Paco did not know. He had seen the bodies of two of Hans-Peter’s men and two he thought were ship’s crew.
Don Ernesto spoke with him in a quiet voice and then looked out the window for a little while without saying anything. The woman Candy. He thought about the times he and Candy made the big bird fly, breathing hard in a pretty hotel on the island of San Andrés.
Don Ernesto arrived at the cemetery a half hour early and watched from the blacked-out SUV as Jesús Villarreal’s funeral procession arrived. Don Ernesto unfolded the note he had received from the widow of Jesús Villarreal and read it again:
Estimado señor,
Jesús would be honored if you could attend his service. It might be as much of a comfort to you as you have been to us, his family.
The widow and her son arrived in a Chrysler, accompanied by a handsome middle-aged man with a distinguished gray coif.
Gomez swept the groups with his binoculars.
“The man in the black jacket is packing,” Gomez said. “Pocket holster in the right front of his pants. Wait until he turns around. Shoulder holster on the right side. He’s left-handed. Chauffeur is standing by the trunk of the car. He’s got a sidearm and the car clicker in his hand. Probably a long gun in the trunk. He’s wearing a vest under that chauffeur coat. We’ve got Ognisanti, and Cuevas behind them. Patrón, why don’t I go greet the widow and take her a note from you?”
“No, Gomez. Paolo, who is the fellow with the hair?”
“He’s a shitpoke lawyer, Diego Riva from Barranquilla. He defended Holland Viera when he hijacked the bus,” Paolo said.
As they watched, Diego Riva passed a black leather envelope to the widow. She carried it behind her purse. About thirty mourners were gathered at Jesús Villarreal’s grave. It was only a hole amid the elaborate marble tombs in the Barranquilla Cemetery—there was a nice marble angel in the cemetery at Cartagena that Don Ernesto planned to offer the Widow Villarreal as soon as he could get the rightful owner’s inscription chiseled off.
Señora Villarreal wore severe widow’s weeds. Their son stood beside her, solemn in his Confirmation suit.
Don Ernesto approached them. He shook the son’s hand first. “You are the man now,” Don Ernesto said. “Call on me if you or your mother need anything.”
He turned to the señora. “Jesús was an admirable man in many ways. His word was good. I hope someone can say the same for me.”
Señora Villarreal raised her veil to look at him. “The house is very comfortable, Don Ernesto. The money is in place. Thank you. Jesús instructed me—when these things were done I must give you this.” She handed the black envelope to Don Ernesto. “He said you should read it very carefully before doing anything else,” she said.
“Señora, may I ask why Diego Riva had it?” Don Ernesto said.
“He handled matters for Jesús. We were afraid our enemies would take it from us. Diego Riva kept it in his vault for me. Thank you for everything, Don Ernesto. And Don Ernesto? Dios se lo pague.”
A Gulfstream IV was waiting at Ernesto Cortissoz International Airport. Twenty minutes after the funeral Don Ernesto and his party were airborne on their way to Miami.
Don Ernesto had the papers of Jesús Villarreal on his tray table. He went through them once very carefully, and then he called Captain Marco in Miami.
“Do you know if Hans-Peter Schneider is dead?”
“I don’t know, Patrón. We haven’t seen any sign of him. We don’t see any movement at the house. No police.”
“I’m coming. We’ll take the house. I want you to find out what your friend Favorito is doing. You can get in touch with him?”
“Yes, Patrón.”
“Have you got the girl, Cari? Would she be useful?”
“Yes, but she says she is out of it, Patrón.”
“I see. Tell me what she wants, Marco.”