Rogues & Patriots, page 4
For a moment, Ochoa’s eyes were distant, as if remembering things better left unsaid. Then he spoke. “I can see you are muy triste, Don Antonio. It is a strange thing with you Americanos. Here in Mexico, where no one escapes corruption, we are not upset by it. Yet in America, which is just as corrupt and much more powerful, and therefore much more peligroso than my little Mexico, there are still idealists like you who are upset by what we see as everyday occurrences. But I can’t help wondering, and because I respect you, Don Antonio, I must ask. Are you purer than the corrupt ones?”
“I wish I could say I am. But I can’t.” This time, Tony didn’t hesitate. Nor did he drink before answering. “All I can do is try to be a man of my word.”
“Hombre de palabra. That’s all any of us can do. So, what can I do for you, Don Antonio?”
“What I’m hoping is you would be willing to drive us out to Don Roberto’s widow’s house in El Tamarindo in the morning, so I can offer her my condolences.” Tony knew Ochoa knew this was expected. The sign of the cross, as it were, for Diaz’s service to both Tony and Ochoa.
Raymundo pondered. He rubbed his tired brown eyes and scraped at the scar on his cheek. Then he drank. Finally, he spoke. “I will do that for you, Don Antonio. I will do it willingly. But I ask one thing in return. I have a nephew, Pedro Salazar, who I am very close to. He went to the university in Mexico City, where he got his law degree. He came home, and like los hombres jóvenes sometimes do, he got caught up with the wrong people. He is currently in the prison in Guadalajara. He will be extradited to Los Angeles soon. It will be un desastre. As long as he is here, el está bien. We take care of him, and we have compadres at the prison. But if he is taken to an American prison, he will be lost…” Raymundo paused, his eyes glistening.
Tony did not answer at first. He looked at me and I nodded. Then Tony refilled his glass with Buchanan’s, and then he toasted the company. “Salud. I can’t promise anything, but we will do what we can to make sure he’s protected.”
“Gracias,” said Raymundo. “That’s all I can ask.”
After that, Tony and Raymundo got down to some serious drinking. The retired captain regaled us with colorful narco stories. What he had “heard” or “discovered,” all the while wearing the grimace of all-too-human reality. Tony responded with lively tales of stakeouts, arrests, confiscations, and the occasional shootout. I wasn’t in the mood to get drunk. Instead, I drank slowly, listened with one ear, and puffed cautiously on a fine Cuban cigar. While mulling over Amina’s predicament. And my own. Raymundo’s phone rang frequently, and he mostly let it go to voicemail. On two occasions, though, he answered, excused himself, and strode to a corner of the room, where, standing under a bust of Benito Juarez, he spoke quietly into the speaker.
After the second call, he returned beaming, sat down, lit up a fresh cigar, and leaned back, puffing luxuriously. “Ah, mis compadres, life is good if you are lucky and keep your eyes and ears open. Over the last few years, I’ve been introduced to several wealthy foreigners, Saudis and East Indians, who are buying high-end properties in our lovely resort communities, especially around Puerto Vallarta. It looks like my biggest deal ever is about to go through. I will make…no, it would be obscene to tell you how much I will make. Let me just say it will be a sum fit for a king. This calls for a celebration. Señor Nicolas, why are you drinking so slowly? I remember you did not hold back on the fishing boat.”
“He’s like that,” said Tony. “Some of the time.”
“I like a cautious man,” said Raymundo, fixing me with the steady yet unsteady look of an experienced drinker. “Just so he’s not too cautious. From the look of you, I don’t believe that is the case.”
I shrugged.
“Actually,” said Tony, “mi compadre is muy loco.”
We wound it down sometime after two a.m. Raymundo led us to a lavishly appointed guest room, where I collapsed onto one of the king-sized beds. The room was spinning, but only a little. I slept.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sunday morning. Raymundo Ochoa’s guestroom. The black dog attacking like a sledgehammer. Tony felt even worse. We gulped down black coffee the maid served in white china mugs. Just before we left the house, Tony handed Raymundo the envelope containing the Señora’s money. “Down payment,” he said. “I’ll arrange to have the rest of it delivered, a chunk at a time.”
We were on the road by eight a.m. in Raymundo’s F-150. The highway from Culiacán to El Tamarindo was in good repair, and we rode three abreast in the cab. Raymundo appeared none the worse for wear and, between phone calls, described the lush farmlands with great enthusiasm. “Pumpkins, watermelons, cantaloupes. Muy bien. And the healthy vegetables. Broccoli, cabbage, lettuce, kale, even Brussel sprouts, we have it all.” Tony responded in monosyllables, and I managed an occasional grunt.
“Santa Madre de Dios. I wouldn’t have gotten drunk with you boys if I’d known you were such pussies. But don’t worry. It’s muy early and the narcotraffickers are all still asleep. No one is likely to shoot us. Besides, everyone knows I’m…What do you Americanos call it?” He fondled the butt-end of his handgun with considerable familiarity.
“You’re strapped,” said Tony.
Roberto’s wife lived on a small goat farm a few miles outside of El Tamarindo. We pulled into her driveway, which was shaded with poplars and elephant trees. The chickens, which had been pecking in the dirt, scattered. Two dogs began to bark, and a young boy with dark hair and a friendly, open face came running up to the cab. When he saw Raymundo wearing khakis with two Americanos looking vaguely like DEA agents, the boy stiffened and drew back.
“No te preocupes,” called Raymundo. “Por favor trae a tu madre. Asuntos oficiales.”
Now the boy looked even more worried. He stared at us and plucked at his hair. Then he nodded and retreated toward the adobe farmhouse. “Let’s get out,” said Raymundo. “This will not be easy. I will not give Roberto’s wife the money now, not in front of everyone. She would be insulted. I will take care of it after suitable time has elapsed.”
Tony nodded grimly. We got out of the truck and stood there. It was still cool and there was little humidity. After five minutes, a thirty-something woman, dressed neatly in jeans and a brightly colored work shirt, walked toward us. Her body language betrayed acute anxiety, and as she drew closer, she faltered.
“Señora,” said Raymundo gravely, “no estamos aquí para hacerte daño.” He walked slowly toward her with us in his wake. Raymundo stopped a few paces away, turned, and nodded to Tony, who stepped up next to him.
“Mi compadre tiene un mensaje para ti.”
Although it was a still morning, a series of dust devils appeared out of nowhere and spiraled haphazardly around the yard.
“Señora Iglesias,” said Tony quietly, his face riveted with strain, “I wish to apologize on behalf of the Estados Unidos.” Raymundo reached out and took his arm. He translated and nodded to Tony.
“Su marido, Roberto Diaz, and I worked together. Roberto was my muy bien compadre and un hombre valiente. He was killed two days ago. We’re not sure who is responsible, but we are investigating. I am so sorry.”
His weathered face grave, Raymundo translated. Señora Iglesias broke in stages, her face cracking, her shoulders slumping, but she did not weep. Then she recovered, straightened up, and began shouting at us in Spanish, calling us pendejos and maricónes and other insults I didn’t recognize.
Tony bowed his head and stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. Then he recovered and spoke with great clarity. “Por favor, Señora, I am investigating su marido’s murder. I will not rest until I have solved it. I give you my word.”
Raymundo translated carefully, emphasizing each word. Then Tony spoke again. “The American government will make arrangements to fly his body here as you wish.”
“El gobierno estadounidense hará los arreglos para volar su cuerpo aquí tal como lo desea.”
“I am so sorry. Roberto was a good man and he was mi compadre.” Tony’s voice broke. A dust devil passed between him and Señora Iglesias.
The widow stood there staring at us. Slowly, her rage fell away, step by step, into bitter resignation. Then she backed away, as if we were somehow lethal. I had the feeling we were. Once she had put enough space between us, Señora Iglesias turned and walked slowly toward her house. She stumbled once but did not fall.
Raymundo drove us back to Culiacán and dropped us off at the airport.
CHAPTER NINE
A somber flight home. You wouldn’t have known it, though, at thirty thousand feet. The glorious twilight over the Pacific, the endless sky streaked pink and rose and turquoise. Such a beautiful fucking world. A bump and a skid and we were back down in it.
Sport bag in hand, his shoulders slumped, Tony started toward the escalator. Stopped halfway and turned around. Came back. When he reached me, he pulled me over against the wall. Spoke quietly. “Listen Nick, there’s something else. I need you to listen to me. Roberto had a lover from El Salvador named Elene Eliade. She’s a smart woman who speaks good English—”
“You sound like you know her…”
“Fuck you, Nick. I do know her. Anyway, this goes way back. Roberto met her in Guadalajara, where she was treated like an indentured servant. She already had a daughter named Abrecia. Elene and Roberto had a daughter together, who they named Gloria. Roberto paid to have all three of them smuggled into the U.S. He suggested she find a job somewhere in the heartland, thinking they would be safe there. For the past four years, she’s been working on a farm in Morgan County in southern Ohio near a place called Liberty Center. Her kids were doing fine, and Roberto would visit every so often. He was really close to little Gloria and Abrecia just loved him. Sweet guy, you know. He liked kids.”
A catch in his throat. I looked at him. Knew where this was going. Maybe.
“The fuckin’ immigration people picked them up a week ago Saturday, five days before we met Tami Wheat at the Bar & Grill.” He stopped. Looked at me. Tony never cries, but there was moisture in his dark brown eyes. “Listen, Nick, they separated the little girls from their mother. They’re being held in a foster home on a farm outside of a town called Gallipolis, right there on the Ohio River. Pending removal. I don’t know where their mother is. I’ll find out.” He stopped. Looked at me. “I gotta do something.”
“I thought the new orders are to reunite the mothers and children.”
“It’s tricky,” said Tony. “If they were reunited, they’d be held in some hellhole of a tent city down on the border, where they would apply for asylum. Elene might get it because she’s originally from El Salvador and will arguably be killed if she’s sent back, but the girls are Mexican citizens. They don’t stand a chance. God knows what will happen to them if they’re deported. They’ll be dumped in Guadalajara, where they don’t know a soul.”
“How do you know they’re Mexican citizens?”
“How do you think? They were born there.”
I must have given Tony a questioning look. “Listen, Nick, I’m not an idiot. I’ve spoken to their lawyer. He seems like a sharp guy. His name is Lyndon Naismith, Esquire. These hicksville lawyers still call themselves Esquire.” Barest flicker of a smile.
“What does he say about the girls getting deported?”
“He says it’s most likely a slam dunk. His strategy is to keep them right where they are, where he thinks they’re safe, for as long as possible. In case the tide turns and the immigration authorities relax the present standard.”
I thought about it. Rubbed my forehead. “They’re not going to relax the standard. You and I both know that. But you said the girls are on a farm. Is that good or bad?”
“That’s the first thing I asked Lyndon. He said the conditions were basic, but the foster parents, the Munsons, are decent people, and the girls weren’t being mistreated. They go to school every day just like American kids. The Munsons have been in the foster care business for a long time and have a good reputation. I agree with Naismith, Esquire.” This time Tony did smile. “They’re obviously better off there on the farm than they’d be in a tent city or in one of those private jails, where they pack ’em in like worker bees.”
I said nothing. Tony leaned in closer. “Listen, Nick, I’ve met these girls. Roberto flew them out here. We all went to Disneyland together, his kids and mine. His girls are sweethearts. They speak really good English.” He stopped. Sport bag in his left hand. Right fist clenched. Tony is a big, strong man. I’ve seen him hurt people.
“Maybe,” I said casually, “I could look into it. Maybe come up with a plan to somehow shepherd them to safety.”
He looked at me. Looked away. Back to me. People hide the hope they’re feeling. Tony was no exception. “Maybe you should look into it. I would really appreciate that.” He offered me his hand, which I shook. Then he turned and started to walk away. Stopped and turned around. “Thank you, Nick. I’ll email you all the information.”
Found an airport Starbucks and ordered a dark roast. Sat there letting it cool, musing over Amina and Mohammad and my own vexing situation. And now Elene’s two daughters were added to the mix. My client list was expanding. Amina, her father Mohammad, Gloria, and Abrecia… A final sip of my coffee, then down the escalator to Arrivals to meet my Uber.
CHAPTER TEN
I stepped off the escalator and there she was. Tami Wheat holding an arrival sign with a skull and crossbones instead of a name. Big smile when she saw me. Gave her the middle finger salute and reached in my pocket for my phone. Texted “SOS” to my partner Bobby Moore. He could track the GPS locator in my boxers, as long as I had them on.
Took a hard left into the baggage crowd. No dice. Three burly Middle Eastern types wearing Arab robes and headgear sandwiched me out of nowhere. Stuck a gun in my ribs and hustled me out the door into an SUV. Muttering in English. Hmm. One fella pulled a hood over my head. The snap of plastic restraints and the sharp pinprick of a needle. Off to la la land. Until rudely awakened by a pail of cold water sloshed over my head. Naked, chained to a chair, under bright interrogation lights. Hoped they’d delegated disposal of my clothes to their weakest link.
Out of the brightness appeared three shadows, which slowly took form. Tami Wheat in her expensive jeans and leather bomber jacket. Grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary. Definitely enjoying herself more than at the Bar & Grill. A tall, aristocratic Yalie type flanked her. Those ole “ice blue” eyes, angular thin features Bryn Mawr girls would call handsome, a good tan, and a $500 haircut. A bespoke suit, starched white shirt, and one of those J. Press-type striped ties. Blue Eyes said his name was Miles Amsterdam, which somehow didn’t surprise me. What did surprise me was how quickly he and his crew had struck. Cursed myself for being unprepared.
The third caballero was a whole different breed. Think Seal Team Six on speedballs. Biker vest over a Marshawn Lynch jersey. The Beast. How subtle. Looked like a knife blade had dug trenches in his forehead––ancient scars that looked like shrapnel wounds. His broken nose pointed to three o’clock. Truly, a new standard of ugly. The guy had a bad habit of gnashing his teeth while slip-slapping his rubber truncheon against his thigh. Growled out his Spook Land name, QB Tragg, as moronic a tradecraft as the goon himself. Clearly, this was the Oliver Tragg Amina had met at the DEA-ICE meeting.
Introductions out of the way, Tami spoke first. “The reason you are here, Crane, is you poisoned Roberto Diaz with potassium phosphate. Less than eight hours after we met at that shitty little bar on Thursday night. The poor man died in agony. You, my friend, are truly an asshole.”
I’d anticipated some kind of stitch up, but this was a shocker. But too absurd to be truly worrisome. I said, “Ms. Wheat. What a pleasure! You’re looking good as always. But I didn’t realize you had such a big imagination. You really should put it to better use.”
The gorilla whacked me in the ribs with his truncheon. Pain. The beast could also speak in a kind of guttural way, two parts gravel, one-part nasal drip. “Listen, shit bird. Here’s how we’re going to do this. I’m going to ask you questions. You will answer the questions promptly and truthfully. Or else I’ll…” He gestured toward my man-parts. “Cut your boys off. So where were you at two a.m. on Saturday morning?”
Naked, chained to the chair, I sensed Tragg and I had a rendezvous with destiny, and I knew I would enjoy grinding a motorcycle boot into his ruined face. But from his question, I gathered there was some problem with their timeline. They were trying to find out what I could prove definitively before building their frame around it.
“Where do you think I was at two a.m.? I was asleep at my house in Avocado Hills.”
“Exactly. You were asleep at your dump on Peter Maple Drive, where we found the potassium traces this morning. You weren’t too careful, were you, you fucking traitor?”
“Hey, have a little respect. That’s my house you’re pissing on. Where I happen to have cameras in every room. Whatever you planted will be obvious, not that you’d have any way to tie your phony traces to Roberto Diaz’s body. If you even were in my house.”
This brought a couple more whacks in the ribs and more guttural spewing. “Crane, shut the fuck up! We disabled your security system before we went in.” Beast in my face, saliva splattering. If he’s this angry, they must have some problem. Or else he’s just insane.
Miles Amsterdam pirouetted into the breach. His was a warm, soothing enema of a voice, fluid and almost sorrowful, as if it pained him to see me in this dire position. “We’ve been watching you for some time now, Mr. Crane. From your recent track record, it hasn’t been easy for us to figure out whose side you’re on. Maybe you’re on no one’s side except your own. Which is pure insanity in today’s world of accelerating threats and clear and present danger to the American way of life. Sadly, your most recent actions represent, in the opinion of our principals, very bad and inexcusable choices.”
