16

John Gilroy lived in the Milagro Country Club, one of the most expensive subdivisions in the northeast quadrant of the city. The homes were expensive and palatial, extravagant. Here, under the looming presence of the Sandia Mountains, the rambling subdivision, which included a golf course, was surrounded by a winding stone wall that Sonny thought was built on the premise of the Great Wall of China: to keep out the hordes. The hordes were only welcomed if they came to tend gardens or clean houses, and they had to leave by nightfall.

Sonny had been in a Milagro home once, invited to a cocktail party during the recent mayoral campaign. He had just cracked the Gloria Dominic murder case, and for a few weeks he received a lot of invitations to strange places.

The middle-aged couple who invited him had just moved in from California, and they let Sonny know they thought the state was “so mystical.” Each week they traveled to Santa Fé to have a New Age healer swing a crystal over them, but, Sonny concluded, they knew little of the deeper spiritual world of the valley.

Ah, to each his own, Sonny thought as he got in his truck and headed toward the Heights. He needed to stake out Gilroy’s place, then follow the man. And he didn’t have much time.

He was sitting at a long stoplight on a street corner decorated with orange barrels. The traffic was moving very slowly so he used the opportunity to call Rita.

“Amor,” he greeted her.

“Don’t amor me!” she said angrily. “What the hell are you doing flying around with that woman! You could get killed!”

The news was out. People around the city had followed Sonny’s exploits with Madge Swenson on television.

“I should have told you, but I didn’t want to worry you,” he replied.

“Worry me? I’m worried now. We’re watching television and all of a sudden there you are! On a playa on the río with, with that woman hanging on you. Everybody’s calling. Your mother called. Where are you now?”

“On my way to Milagro—”

“Up north?”

“No, the country club.”

“What for?”

“I’ve got to see somebody.”

“Are you going by hot-air balloon?” Rita said sarcastically.

Yup, she is pissed off. Sonny shook his head. He should have told her.

“I need to learn more about a man named John Gilroy.”

“Elfego Francisco Baca, sometimes I wish you didn’t have to follow people.”

“That’s what my mamacita says.”

“I don’t want to be your mother, I want to be your wife. I don’t like you going up in a balloon with some blond. She’s nice-looking, and I don’t trust her motives.”

Sonny flinched. Rita’s intuition was right 99 percent of the time.

“You say you talked to my jefita. How is she?”

“She’s doing great. That woman is tough. A double bypass and she’s ready to go dancing. She asked why you hadn’t been by.”

“I have no excuse. I’m a sinvergüenza.”

“Amor, don’t say that. I told her about Diego and his familia. She knows you’re busy. There’s nothing to do. She’s fine.” Her voice took on a softer tone.

“How about la familia?”

“Everybody’s fine. I got Cristina to school this morning. She was excited. Marta stayed home to clean the house, and I took some food to don Eliseo’s to feed the men. Diego wasn’t there.”

“He’s okay,” Sonny explained. “He’s doing some legwork for me.”

“Legwork. I wonder what you guys mean when you say legwork. Balloons and blondes don’t mix,” she reminded him again. “Next she’ll have you drinking champagne up there.”

Sonny gulped. “Listen, I have to find Gilroy and stick to him. I don’t know—”

“You don’t know when you’ll be home. Okay, but call. You have a phone, use it. Y ten cuidado. I love you. I worry about you.”

“I love you, amor. And don’t worry. I will call.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Adiós. Un besito.” There was a soft smacking sound.

“Adiós. Un beso.” He answered her kiss with his, a loud smack into the phone. He glanced to the side to see the woman in a Camaro watching him. The woman smiled, a “how cute” smile. Sonny felt his face turn red.

“I do love you, cabrón” were Rita’s parting words.

“And I love you,” he said, clicking the phone to off and joining the flow of traffic easing away from the orange barrel grove. The city was growing like mad, and orange barrels had been designated the city flower.

He did love Rita, more than any woman. She was good for him, and she was the only woman, besides his mother, who worried about him. But right now he had to tail Gilroy, find out what the relationship of the man was to the battle over the Alburquerque skies.

He turned up the street that led into the Milagro Country Club. There was a guard at the gate. A car ahead of him slowed down and was waved through. Sonny stopped at the gate.

“Business?” the beefy guard asked him.

“Lawn work,” Sonny answered. He had no business decal on his truck, so he couldn’t even claim the self-respect of a plumber or electrician.

“Address?”

Sonny gave the only address he knew, Gilroy’s. The guard looked suspiciously at Sonny but waved him through.

John Gilroy’s home was a study in nouveau riche architecture: a three-story mansion with Greek Ionic pillars in a poor imitation of an old southern plantation. The monstrosity was framed against the blue Sandia Mountains. The wide lawn was as big as some of the baseball parks in the poorer districts of the city. On the wide driveway were parked two Mercedes sedans.

It fits, Sonny thought. Some think bigger, louder, and richer is better. Gilroy had become a pillar of the community, a leader in the country club. They didn’t know his fortune came from dope money.

Ah-ha, Sonny thought as he drove past the house, I’m not the only one interested in Gilroy.

A cable TV van was parked half a block from the Gilroy place, just about where Sonny had expected the FBI to have a stakeout. They had set up a couple of orange barrels and pretended to be busy at curbside. One tall, one short, Mutt and Jeff. But he didn’t recognize the agents; they weren’t Mike and Eddie. Did Gilroy know he was being watched? Sonny hoped that a nervous Gilroy was ready to make a move.

Sonny parked down the street. He could watch the house—and the FBI van—from here, but sooner or later he would attract attention and have to move. If he loitered, someone was sure to report him.

He felt his stomach rumble. He had packed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and coffee. He ate the sandwich and sipped coffee as he read through Gilroy’s file. About six feet, the man was big and chunky. Blond hair cut short. A determined jaw. The kind of man who learns to run over people while playing fullback in college.

Gilroy had done a stint at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He flunked and was recruited by the CIA. There his paper trail ended, only to resurface on the front pages of international newspapers when he was shot down over Nicaragua and taken prisoner by the Sandinistas. It had been a crippling blow to the clandestine CIA operation supplying the Contras.

Alisandra had connected Gilroy to the Medellín drug cartel, but her story was debunked in Washington. When the Sandinistas turned Gilroy back to the U.S. government, he was given a new identity and told to disappear. But he wasn’t the type to disappear.

The phone interrupted Sonny’s reading. It was Diego.

“Hey, hermano, I hear you got shot at. You okay?”

“Fine. Raven’s a bad shot.”

“Don’t get careless. Listen, you know the name Gilroy.”

“I’m sitting at his front door,” Sonny answered.

“So you’re ahead of me. My people know very little, but they do know the shipment hasn’t come in yet. This man Gilroy keeps his hands clean, but things are hot. He’s going to move the carga himself.”

“Where is it now?”

“Juárez.”

“Anything else?”

“It’s a big shipment.”

“How big?”

“Biggest one they ever tried. Millions!”

Sonny whistled. Damn. Enough carga to keep the country warm during the winter.

“Something else.”

“What?”

“It’s not just coke, also heroin. Quick jolts for anyone with a few bucks.”

“Heroin,” Sonny repeated. Everyone knew it was back, and being purchased by professionals with money. Soma holidays at the weekend retreat, something to take the stress out of the dog race.

“Things are really quiet on the street. The Mexican mafia’s been paid to keep out. They say it comes from Colombia, and the CIA’s involved. This man is connected, Sonny. You gotta be careful.”

“I will. Gracias,” Sonny answered.

Juárez, he thought. So they paid the Juárez cartel to use their route. Hell, you couldn’t just pay off the Juárez boys without big money, a lot of money, enough to buy federal officials in Mexico and in the United States.

He looked up into the blue sky. It was a perfect day for ballooning, and yet the sky was empty. How much longer would the balloonists hang around before they all packed up and left the city?

A blonde five-year-old and his young mother went by on bikes. They looked at Sonny. Sonny smiled, the woman scowled. They would report him, he figured; he would have to move. He started his truck at the same time Gilroy’s front door opened, and John Gilroy hurried out, jumped into one of his cars, and shot out of the driveway.

In a hurry, Sonny thought. He waited for Mutt and Jeff to jump into the cable TV van and shoot by, trailing Gilroy, then he followed, straight to the airport.

There was no time for disguise, Sonny thought, as he followed Gilroy into the parking garage, then to the Southwest Airlines ticket counter. He had to hope the two agents tailing Gilroy didn’t know him.

His man was in a hurry to catch a flight to Juárez. Sonny cautiously stood a few persons behind Gilroy.

“El Paso, Mr. Gilroy,” the agent said, handing Gilroy his ticket. “Flight leaves in thirty minutes.”

Sonny searched his jacket pocket and found twenty dollars. He was broke. He handed his credit card to the agent and said “El Paso.” He breathed a sigh of relief when the agent smiled. “All set, Mr. Baca. They’re boarding now, so hurry.”

Mutt and Jeff boarded right behind Gilroy, so Sonny was the last one to board the flight. The door closed, and they were quickly airborne. He checked his wallet again. He hadn’t planned on a trip to El Paso, but if the coke was in Juárez then the coincidence of Gilroy going to El Paso was too close to miss. His credit card would be at its limit now. It was going to be a tight squeeze.

He had friends in El Paso, Joe Olvera and Bobby Byrd, guys he had met while at the university, but he wouldn’t have time to call and borrow money. Gilroy was moving fast.

The El Paso airport was quiet. Sonny trailed Gilroy and momentarily lost sight of the two agents. Gilroy signaled a cab, got in, and sped away. Sonny jumped into the second cab that swung to the curb.

“See that taxi,” he said, pointing. “Twenty bucks if you can keep up with it.” He was straining his resources, but he hadn’t come this far to lose Gilroy.

The dark, mustachioed, pockmarked face of the driver turned and scowled. The man had Asian eyes. “Who the hell do you think you are, Charlie Chan?”

“Twenty bucks,” Sonny repeated, and held the twenty in front of the man’s face.

The man smiled. “All right, bro. So you’re not Charlie Chan,” he said, grabbed the twenty, and burned rubber as he left the airport. Gilroy’s taxi was in sight, but moving fast.

“You a cop?” the driver asked. “See, if you’re a cop, I can break the law, maybe not worry about tickets.”

“I’m not a cop,” Sonny answered. “I’m Elfego Baca.” He smiled into the rearview mirror at the cabbie, while keeping his eye on Gilroy’s taxi as they wove in and out of traffic. “And don’t worry about tickets.”

“Elfego Baca? Used to be an old cowboy or sheriff or something by that name,” the driver said.

“That’s me.” Sonny smiled.

“You from New Mexico?” the cabbie asked.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Ah, you manitos are all alike.” He frowned.

Where were Mutt and Jeff? Sonny wondered. They couldn’t have lost Gilroy, but he hadn’t seen them come out to the taxi line.

“What city?” the cabbie asked.

“’Burque. I’m here on vacation.”

The driver laughed. “It’s no vacation, bro. You got no luggage, see, and you’re following a smart man. The driver knows the area, and he knows how to lose people.”

“But he ain’t going to lose us,” Sonny said.

“Not this dude. Hey, I grew up here. I can stay with him.”

Sonny glanced at the driver’s plastic card on the sun visor. Marcos Vargas. A homeboy. He was in good hands.

“Hey, bro,” the driver said as they drove toward the bridge that crossed into Juárez, “your man’s going into Juárez. Wanna follow?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s extra to cross over,” Marcos said, and leaned his arm on the backrest as the traffic slowed down at the border checkpoint. “And I don’t do drug deals. I got a family, see, and I’ve done time. So I want to keep my nose clean.”

He turned and looked at Sonny, his coal-black eyes letting Sonny know where he stood.

“I’m following the man because I think he killed someone.” Sonny leveled with the cab driver. “You drop me now and the man’s free.”

Marcos shook his head and hit the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. “Damn! Another wild story. Por qué yo, Dios? Por qué yo?”

Just ahead of them was the border checkpoint, the Mexican agents looking into cars and asking the usual questions.

“And you’re broke, right?”

“Right.” Sonny shrugged, trying to smile.

Marcos groaned. “I told my old lady this morning, today is going to be a good day. Why? Because I just feel it in my blood. Then you show up. Are you carrying contrabanda?”

Sonny shook his head.

“Are you carrying a weapon?”

Again Sonny shook his head.

“Mexican jails are the pits.” Marcos swore and drove up to the Mexican agent. “Believe me, I’ve been in one.”

“A dónde?” the Mexican border agent asked, glancing at Sonny.

“El señor va comprar pisto,” Marcos answered.

The agent smiled. “Cuánto tiempo va pasar en México?”

“Una hora, es todo,” Sonny answered.

The agent stepped back and waved them through. Marcos sped away to catch up with Gilroy’s taxi. “Murder,” he said as they veered away from downtown Juárez. “Your man’s headed to the Colonia de los Muertos. The mafia warehouse district. You sure you want to go in there?”

“I’m sure,” Sonny replied. He had come this far, and his instinct told him Gilroy was going to an important rendezvous. Perhaps to the coke shipment.

They followed the cab along the railroad tracks into a large warehouse district. Small tienditas and talleres dotted the potholed street; mangy dogs and snot-nosed kids played in the street. Dark-skinned women who had seen one cab pass now turned to watch the second one. Two cabs from El Paso meant trouble. Mothers called from open doors for their children to hurry inside.

“He stopped up ahead.” Marcos pointed as he pulled to the side of the narrow, deserted street. “These warehouses belong to the Juárez cartel,” Marcos whispered. “Carillo territory. You don’t walk these streets unless you’re buying or delivering carga.”

Carillo was México’s top cocaine smuggler. His Juárez cartel had grown as big as the Cali cartel. Carillo bought cocaine from Colombia, brought it through Guadalajara and Ciudad Juárez, and flew it into the States. The Mexican press called him “Lord of the Skies” because he used jet airliners to fly coke from Colombia to Mexico. Looked like now he was expanding into the heroin trade as well.

“The man competes with the Gulf cartel,” Marcos said. “He buys for the Tijuana and Sinaloa cartels and runs his show from here. He buys directly from Orejuela in Colombia. But you know that,” he said, his eyes boring into Sonny’s. “You played games with me. I’m dropping you off and you’re on your own.”

“I’ll level with you,” Sonny confessed. “The guy we’re chasing is just about to ship a big load of dope up to Alburquerque. I want to stop it.”

“But you’re not a cop?”

“No. With me, it’s personal.”

He fished in his wallet, turned the flap behind which he always carried a ten. For emergencies, and this was one. He handed it to Marcos. “Can you wait?”

“Wait?” Marcos looked at the ten and laughed. “For ten bucks you want me to wait? You’re loco! I come within five feet of anyone doing dope and I’m back in the pinta.”

“I came in a hurry, I didn’t want to lose the man. It’s important,” Sonny explained, offering the ten.

“Ay, madrecita Llorona.” Marcos shook his head. “Just my luck. I drive dumb tourists back and forth all day, and when I get something exciting, it’s a manito who’s broke. My wife says I should be in the movies; make more money that way. I could be a bad guy. They’re always looking for Chicano bad guys, you know. She says I look like Eddie Olmos.” He turned and faced Sonny. “Okay, Elfego, I’ll drink a cup of coffee, and when I finish, I call the cops and tell them Elfego Baca is dead in that warehouse. Then I go home. I got a wife and kids to take care of.”

Sonny smiled and patted the driver’s arm. “Thanks, bro. I don’t plan to be dead.”

He slipped out of the taxi and scooted between the warehouses to the back. The loading dock was empty. He found a back door, but it was dead-bolted. He took out his jimmy set and tried it on the dead bolt, but he couldn’t turn the pins. The next best thing was a fire escape, so he climbed the rusty ladder to the roof. He pried open a door with a piece of old pipe and entered the cavernous attic of the dark building.

He made his way through the darkness to a skylight covered with cobwebs and dust. Below him he could hear voices. He wiped away the dust from the glass and looked into the middle of a large room. Under the dim light stood John Gilroy. He was shouting at a man who kept to the shadows. Sonny felt the hair rise along the nape of his neck.

Raven! Gilroy had come to meet Raven!