The Long Run, page 7
“What time should—” Israel said, before the line clicked dead. He grimaced and cursed. That’s twice Antonio hung up on him. Off to a poor start already. He flipped open the GPS app on his phone and punched in Market 23. Downloads were slow, so he waited a full minute for the route to map. Twenty minutes away from the airport. He spun to face the line of waiting taxis and called out to the nearest one. Soon he was inside a taxi, speeding away.
Cancun didn’t resemble the cartel battle ground that Gustavo described. Crowds of fair-haired tourists wandered the streets with giant sunglasses and floppy hats. One group paused, handed their camera to a citizen, and posed for pictures. Other than the occasional military truck rumbling by, Cancun appeared no more dangerous than the average American beach destination.
He settled back into the cab and shut his eyes. He smiled as more memories of Sofia bubbled into his mind.
Market 23 was a sprawling, open-air flea market located outside of the sanitized tourist areas in downtown Cancun. Vendors hawked clothes, groceries, and electronics under the beating sun. Displays piled with products sat outside storefronts. Dense crowds of customers browsed and haggled. Almost all were brown and black-haired like Israel. There wasn’t a white skinned gringo in sight. He gripped his backpack tight and brushed past a carnecería—meat market—that flared his nostrils. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. His stomach grumbled. But there was no time. Antonio’s pawn shop first. Food later.
Vendors called to him as he passed. He told them thanks and kept moving. He scanned the stalls for names marked on the facades. Whole chickens hung on hooks in front of one store. Beside it, green pots festooned with flowers sat on displays inside another shop. The market morphed into a long and low concrete building with open bays for doors. Still no sign of Antonio’s store. Sunlight faded as he pressed deeper inside. The shops darkened with it. An attractive brunette sat inside the front door of a store advertising black magic potions and amulets. She winked and asked if Israel wanted her to read the cards. He declined with a wave of his hand and moved on. Deep in the market’s bowels, he glimpsed the name Antonio’s Casa de Empeños painted over the door of a shop. The doorbell chimed as he stepped inside.
Tables were stacked with jeans, hoodies, and sneakers. Glass countertops displayed car stereos, cameras, phones, and tablets. Handwritten price tags stuck to the glass surfaces. The standard wares of a local pawn shop.
A cluster of people browsed the store, unfolding shirts and checking jeans for holes. Two boys gawped at a pair of Air Jordans. But nobody resembled an employee or proprietor. Israel scanned the electronics when a figure loomed beside him. It was a tall man, skinny and hunched, with thinning black hair and a shiny pate. He had narrow shoulders and hips, like his pursed lips. He pushed a pair of spectacles close to his eyes and regarded Israel with a raised brow.
“You need help?”
“Are you Antonio?”
“You’re Israel?”
“Yeah.”
“Come with me.”
Antonio spun on his heel and headed to a hallway perpendicular to the front counter. He walked fast, never turning to verify Israel was following. Israel hurried as Antonio disappeared around the corner. He unlocked a side door with a set of keys attached to his waist and pushed inside. Antonio wasn’t big on the niceties of life, like inviting Israel inside. Israel followed anyway, and Antonio shut the door and locked it.
He kneeled in front of a cabinet that spanned the length of the office and opened its wide doors. He leaned inside the cabinet until his entire torso disappeared from view. A soft click sounded, and a wooden panel snapped off in his hands. He laid the panel on the floor and pulled the handle of a hidden drawer that slid out of its cubbyhole. With both hands gripping the drawer, he stood and laid it on the counter. A rifle and several handguns rested on purple felt lining. Antonio faced Israel with an expectant sigh.
“What kind of gun you want?” he said.
“How’d you know—” Israel said.
“Tavo called me. Told me what you needed.”
Israel nodded. Gustavo could be an obstinate, unpredictable ass. But his loyalty knew no bounds. Israel made a mental note to thank him later.
The cartels carried an armory of destruction. Besides the ever-present Kalashnikovs, they also toted automatic Uzis and Tec 9s and AR-15 style rifles. Some clipped grenades on their belts. Israel scanned Antonio’s meager selection and landed on the bolt action .308 rifle. It was the biggest weapon in the drawer by far. But he couldn’t walk out the front door toting a rifle. He wasn’t in Texas anymore. Guns were illegal in Mexico without a permit. And those were damn hard to get. It was the greatest irony of that gun-soaked country. Narcos carried the highest-powered weaponry available on the open market without hassle. Almost all purchased by straw buyers across the border. But a citizen risked years in jail if caught with an unlicensed handgun.
Besides the rifle, there were two .22s, a .38 revolver, two .45 pistols, and one 9mm. He dismissed the .22s and the .38 immediately. Just because he couldn’t walk around carrying a long barrel murder machine, didn’t mean he didn’t want something with stopping power. One of the .45’s interested him. It was a shiny silver Smith & Wesson semi-auto with a thirteen-round clip. Two .45 slugs in the chest would stop any gangster. The grip felt solid in his hand. It was a heavy beast, though, and Israel wondered how to conceal it. He slid it under his waistband for a test. His pants sagged under the weight, and it looked like he had a tumor on his hip. He could stuff it in his backpack, but that wouldn’t help if he found himself in a firefight.
“You sell concealed holsters?”
“Uh, I have a couple. Nothing for a .45, though. Got one for the 9mm.”
The 9mm was a Glock semi-auto. Compact design. Smaller than the .45, it only held six rounds. But nine millies packed a good punch too. Antonio handed him the holster. It was a slick design. More like a pouch than a holster. It slid inside the waistband of his jeans and a clip locked over the belt. With his baggy jeans and loose tee shirt untucked, the bump was almost imperceptible. A quick grab and yank, and the gun was in his hand. Much lighter than the .45, with a polymer handle that lent a dependable grip.
“How much?”
“$900 and you can have the holster.”
That was a higher price than purchasing both brand-new in the US. Antonio noticed Israel’s grimace and gave him a shrug.
“It’s risky selling guns in Mexico.”
Israel didn’t have many options. But he could haggle at least.
“$600.”
Antonio frowned and rolled his eyes. “That’s not even serious. I’ll do $850.”
“$700.”
“$800 and I’ll throw in some ammo. But that’s it.”
He arched his brow and folded his arms. Israel did some mental math. Buying the gun and holster would wipe out most of his bankroll. He pulled out all his life’s savings for the trip; $1,562. Between the plane tickets and the Glock, there wasn’t much left. He sighed acceptance and counted out the cash from his thinning roll. Then he tucked the holster under his waistband and dropped the pistol into the pouch. A click of the holster secured the gun on his hip.
Antonio gave him a serious look. “If the police catch you, you didn’t get this from me. Understand?”
“Yeah. I’m cool.”
“Bueno,” Antonio said, and returned the drawer to its cubbyhole and locked the cabinet.
“Hey,” Israel said, changing the subject. “You know anything about the Americans that were kidnapped two days ago?”
Antonio’s gaze washed over Israel like he was an informant wearing a wire.
“Just what I heard on the news,” Antonio said suspiciously. “You know them?”
“Yeah.”
“You have my condolences.”
“You have any idea who took her?”
“¿Qué sé yo?” he said, growing angry. “I own a pawn shop. I don’t get mixed up in that business! It’s not safe for anybody right now. Gang shootings are every day. I keep my head down and stay out of sight. I don’t know why you’re here, but I have a good idea. I’m sorry for your friends, but people die or disappear here every day. Who’s rescuing them?”
Antonio’s reaction surprised him. It was easy for Israel, the American watching TV from afar, to be dismayed at the cartel violence happening in Mexico. But these people lived it every day. They were survivors.
“I understand. Sorry.”
Antonio’s nostrils flared. “Don’t pull that pistol out unless you have to. Understand? If the cops catch you, they’ll think you’re a narco and take you to jail. If the narcos catch you, they’ll think you’re on the other side and kill you. There are no friends here. Remember that.”
Israel exhaled. It felt like gang life again. The only people he could trust were his family. Nobody else.
A shrill buzzer sounded. Antonio swiveled and peered into a closed-circuit TV sitting on his desk. A grainy black and white view of the lobby showed on the screen. Three young men had entered the store. They were lean with low rider jeans and muscle shirts and visible tattoos. A pistol grip poked out from under the shirt of the leader. Only narcos got away with that.
“Leave. Now!” Antonio said. He pushed Israel towards a rear door and unlocked it. Bright light poured inside. He winced as he shoved Israel into the daylight. The door clicked shut, and he was alone in a crowd of shoppers browsing the outdoor stalls. They brushed past him with only a side glance.
Israel had reached the last preconceived step in his plan. And he had barely started. He hoped Antonio might give him a lead. But now he was on his own. He patted his hip. The hard lump of steel gave him courage.
He considered his next move when he heard it. An unbroken rattle of dull pop pop pops sounded in the distance. Like neighborhood kids lighting fireworks for the 4th of July. But July was last month. Israel assumed those weren’t fireworks. His head swiveled to locate the sound, as did everyone else. The shots came from behind them; In the carnecería’s direction where Israel first entered the market. The crowd murmur rose in a cacophony of confused fear. They surged away from the sound, pushing in a mad dash to escape. Israel pressed against the wall and let them flow past him like a raging river around a boulder.
Once they passed, he stepped onto the empty concourse. More echoes of gunfire filtered through the market. He had a choice to make. Flee to safety with the crowd? Or move towards the danger? It wasn’t a choice. He came here to find Sofia. And those gunmen might be the narcos who kidnapped her.
His footfalls reverberated off the concrete building as he raced towards the gunfire.
CHAPTER 9
Israel
The bustling marketplace had cleared in seconds. Stores and kiosks were abandoned. Stacks of clothes lay scattered on the ground, knocked over by the passing scramble. An elderly shopkeeper watched Israel pass through a crack in her door. He told her everything was fine and kept moving.
The firing had stopped. Without it serving as a beacon, he was unsure where to go. A few remaining people stared past him to where the firing originated. He followed their line of sight and arrived at a broad, open courtyard. He kneeled beside a shop wall perpendicular to the patio, keeping his head low. Sweat beaded his forehead as he scanned the area.
Smooth cut, gray paver stones lined the courtyard in all directions. A round wooden platform stood in its center. The heart of the market where shoppers congregated and listened to live music. Instead, it was a chaos of overturned carts, spilled produce, and abandoned bags, shoes, and purses. The ragged remains of a frenzied scramble to escape. The silence unnerved by its very existence. An unseen seagull cried in a shrill voice. Then someone gurgled a wet cough and hack. A moan in the distance.
Israel lifted his shirt, flipped the clip on the holster, and withdrew his pistol. He braced his gun arm, pointed downrange, and hustled around a tumbled cart. He kneeled and peeked around it.
Bodies lay strewn on the pavers. At least four. Maybe more. Three men and one woman for sure. The seagull stood over one, rooting through a bag of groceries. It spotted him and lifted in flight, flapping away with a noisy squawk. Israel detected no other movement besides the bird. The distant peel of emergency sirens reached his ears. La policía municipal were minutes away. He crouched low and hurried to the first body, an elderly man in a polo shirt and beige khakis. His rigid hands still clutched the grocery bag the seagull had plundered. A neat red entry hole bled on his right cheek, just below his wide eyes. Under his head lay a pulpy maroon mess. An old woman lay on her side next to him. A line of holes stitched from her abdomen to her neck. A stunned look on her face. Blood gurgled from the neck wound. Judging by the spray of red on the kiosk beside her, the gurgle began as a geyser.
Israel could do nothing for them. He left them for the plastic body bags of coroners and moved on.
A black Tec-9 pistol sat beside the open hand of a young man. His unblinking eyes stared into the blue sky above. Israel waved his hand over the dying man’s face. No reaction. A frail moan escaped his lips. A surprise considering his blood-soaked shirt and pants. Death’s rattle drawn out into a slow, lingering lament. Israel needed to know his gang affiliation. Why was he there? He ripped open the man’s shirt in search of a hooded calavera tattoo. But the blood-spattered wreckage of his chest concealed all.
Israel rifled through the narco’s pockets and removed a thin wallet, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. He tossed the cigs and the lighter and pocketed the wallet and moved on.
Another young man laid beside the moaner with a warm pistol in his hands. A splash of dark blood covered his face and neck. Like the other narco, his chest was a pulpy ruin. The tattered work of the Tec-9’s 9mm slugs. The emergency sirens were louder. Israel had little time left. He rifled through the dead man’s pockets and removed another wallet and a long, narrow ledger. He shoved them in his jeans pocket and stood. His mother would call it sacrilege to steal from the dead. He hoped, somewhere, she understood.
A policeman appeared around the corner. Navy blue uniform and black leather shoes. Their eyes locked, and the cop shouted, “¡parar! ¡Es la policía!” The cop reached for his sidearm as Israel sprinted away. He vaulted over the dead narcos and skidded in their thick blood. He caught himself before falling and ran around a kiosk and into an abandoned tienda. Piles of mangos and avocados made for good obstacles. He swiped them off the display tables to cover his tracks. He darted through a back door and into a sprawling field outside.
Instead of escaping across the open field, where he would be easily spotted, he doubled back and reentered the market through the rear of another store. There was no door. Just a tent flap he lifted and snuck under. Once inside, he heard the shouts of multiple policemen in the field. He snuck under a fabric wall into another tent, checking his angles to make sure no cops saw him. Before long, he had returned to the narrow rat maze of the flea market. Shop keepers and customers, once hidden in fright, had filtered back onto the concourse, convinced the danger had passed. He blended in with them and slowed his pace. Keeping his head down, he pressed forward. Soon he was outside the market, striding down the sidewalk and listening to the sirens behind him. He hailed a cab and told the driver to drive him to the nearest taqueria. The driver nodded, and they were off.
Israel sank into the rear seat and exhaled. He would review the ledger, wallet, and photos later. Now was time to rest and consider his next move.
The taquería was a square building painted a sun-bleached pink. It afforded a spectacular view of the beach across the street. Israel sat at an aqua blue table on the outdoor patio with a bottle of Indio beside him. A waiter in a black shirt and beige slacks arrived carrying a plate of tacos.
“¿Pediste tres tacos de carne asada?” he said with a bright smile.
“Sí, gracias.”
The waiter rested the plate of tacos on Israel’s table and departed. A shake of salt and a spray of lime wedge and Israel was ready to eat. The ledger and two wallets he pilfered from the dead men laid on the table beside him. He worked as he chewed, removing the cards and cash and tossing the empty wallets in the trash. He counted out over twelve thousand pesos between the two men. Not bad. He needed the money. But he assumed two rifle toting narcos carried more cash in their pockets than that.
One narco resembled himself. Israel rubbed dry blood off the man’s ID to read his name. Luis Manuel Echeverría, from Villahermosa. Having a Mexican ID could be handy getting into places. But it was a bad idea to keep the ID of a dead narco in his wallet. He nixed the idea and tossed the ID into the trash. No credit cards. No business cards.
Next was the ledger. Six narrow columns lined the pages. The first column listed business names. The second column was for monthly payments. Anywhere from five thousand to thirty thousand pesos per month. Protection money. The last four columns were months of the year. Check marks noted the months paid. Israel clicked his tongue. Luis wasn’t a sicario. He was a bagman. An errand boy sent to collect money. Somehow, that collection went south for poor Luis. Maybe a chance encounter with rival narcos. Or maybe they wanted to claim his route as their own. Either way, it ended with two dead narcos. The world would not miss them.
A Polaroid photo tumbled from behind the last page of the ledger. Israel examined it with narrowed eyes. It was Luis, cleaned up and smiling and holding a little girl in his arms. He laughed like he just told a joke. The girl’s raven hair scattered on her narrow shoulders. Her pudgy cheeks parted as she smiled into the camera.
Israel’s heart sank as he studied the photo. Luis was a family man. A family now missing a father and husband. He and Luis were about the same age, with similar tapered chins and high cheek bones. They could pass as brothers. They were alike in other ways, too. Israel had started down the same gangland path as Luis. Unfortunately for Luis, there was no Tía Rosa to alter his fate.
