CRISTINA SPENT THE MORNING AT HOME reading an FBI document about cross-border trafficking and related gang activity. The language was clinically dry and made her eyes roll into the back of her head, but she forced herself through all one hundred and twenty pages. In the end she felt she could sum it up in one sentence: business as usual along the border.
In El Paso they had gangs and in Ciudad Juárez there were gangs. They traded with one other and helped one another and the common denominator was cash. On the US side they caught kids as young as eighteen with guns stashed in the dashboards of their cars. On the Mexican side it was the same, only it was marijuana and meth heading north.
These were small-time deals, just a few gang-bangers looking to earn some money. The big fish swam in deeper waters, where a hundred kilos could ship without anyone batting an eye and dozens of factory-fresh AK-47s shipped south into eager hands. In Texas it was hard to get dope, but easy to get guns. In Mexico it was just the opposite.
Cristina and Robinson did not handle the big fish. FBI and DEA were both in El Paso and they took care of the big-money deals, the heavy weight, the traffic in guns. Customs and Border Protection, too. Cristina had even met two agents of the ATF once, looking into weapons trafficking through the city. All eyes were focused on El Paso and its companion across the river, Juárez.
She had an early lunch and drove to work. Robinson was already at his desk reading the daily reports. He had a big cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee on hand. “Afternoon,” he said.
“What’s up?”
“Not much. We’re the safest city in the US, you know.”
“Are we?”
“That’s what they say right here.”
“Well, good for us.”
Robinson passed the sheets over and Cristina scanned them. One of them touted the results of “an independent study” that showed El Paso’s overall crime rate was down one percent. In Central Regional Command, which was their domain, it was down five percent.
“Safest city in the US,” Cristina remarked.
“Yep.”
“I guess I ought to just go home, then. No bad guys to catch.”
“We should be so lucky.”
Captain Cokley approached them with paperwork in hand. “How are the fearless crimebusters this morning?” he asked.
“Getting by,” Robinson said.
“Well, I’ve got something for you. Grocery store on 4th. Gang tags and possible protection racket. I want you to go out there, talk to the guy, see what you can dig up.”
“We’re on it.”
“And don’t stop for any juvenile delinquents on the way. You have real work to do.”
Robinson drove. They pulled up into a yellow zone and put a police placard in the front window. Cristina had a view of the long side wall of the little family-owned grocery and she could see the graffiti from the car. “You got the camera?” she asked.
“Right here.”
First they took pictures of the gang tags. They were easy to read: the tagger’s signature, the neighborhood and the gang stamp: 21. “Aztecas,” Cristina said. Robinson took pictures.
They went inside. The place had a peculiar aroma, of closeness and age, that wasn’t totally off-putting. This grocery store had been in the neighborhood forty years and it lacked the stark, almost antiseptic feel of a chain store. Fresh produce was displayed just inside the front door, still smelling of the earth.
A teenaged girl stood at the register. Cristina showed her ID and asked for the manager.
“The owner is here.”
“That’ll work, too.”
The girl disappeared for a while and returned with an old man in his late sixties, balding on top and widening in the middle. He nodded at their badges and shook both of their hands. “I am Ruben Delgado,” he said. “Mucho gusto.”
“Do you have somewhere we can talk?” Cristina asked.
“Come back to my office.”
The office was a cramped space at the far end of the grocery behind a door marked GERENTE. Somehow Delgado had found room enough for a desk and two chairs for visitors. The walls had cheap wood paneling on them and were covered with framed certificates and civic awards.
Robinson sat by the door and Cristina squeezed in next to the wall. Delgado settled behind his desk.
“We saw the gang tags outside,” Robinson said. “What can you tell us about them?”
“There’s nothing to tell. One day they aren’t there, the next they are. Those kids, they come by in the night and do it. We can’t afford security cameras outside. Not to watch a wall.”
“Okay, then what is this about protection money?” Cristina asked.
Delgado sighed. “One day last week, a young kid comes in to buy a soda. He talks to my girl at the front, says the soda is free. Then he says he has friends who will come around and want free things, too. She told me right away.”
“Did they ask for money directly?”
“No, just free things.”
“Do you have a camera up front?”
“Yes.”
“If you have tapes from that day, we’ll need them. And we’ll need your employee to come down and look at pictures.”
“Does she have to go?”
“Well, no,” Cristina said, “but if we can find out who’s hassling your employees, we can put a stop to it.”
“The policeman I spoke to, he said that they can keep an eye on my store, watch for trouble.”
“A patrol car can’t be here all the time,” Robinson said.
“I just worry. My girl, she’s young. She doesn’t need no trouble.”
“We’re trying to keep her out of trouble,” Cristina said.
“When does she have to go?”
“We won’t take her now, but if she can come down sometime this week, that would be good.”
Delgado stood up. “You think they’ll come and wreck my store?”
“Probably not,” Robinson said. “If these are just punk kids, they’ll mark up your walls, try to cause a little trouble and then get out. They’re not a serious problem.”
“Good. I’ve been in business since 1972. We’ve seen some bad times down here in Segundo Barrio. We thought times had changed.”
Cristina smiled for the old man. “Don’t worry about it. We’re on it.”
They left their cards with Delgado and his cashier, then retreated outside. Robinson put on sunglasses against the glare. “That was a waste of goddamned time.”
“I don’t know about you, but I didn’t sign up to be on free soda patrol,” Cristina said.
“The tags and the kid probably aren’t even related,” Robinson said. “I don’t know any member of Barrio Azteca who’d stop at stealing soft drinks from a tienda. Somebody shows a gun, then they can start to worry.”
“Broken windows, Bob. We’re chasing after broken windows. It starts with a spray can and ends up with an AK.”
“You think that girl will even come down to look at mug shots?”
“Nope.”
“Me, neither. Want to grab some lunch?”
“I already ate.”
“Then you can watch me eat,” Robinson said.
“Captain will want us on another call.”
“We’ll tell him this one took a while.”
“Careful, or my bad habits are going to wear off on you.”
“I think they already have.”