Tequila Sunset (33 page)

“Very funny. I didn’t exactly volunteer for this.”

“How long ago did Víctor go in there?”

“Three hours.”

“He said Guerra might be there tonight.”

It did not take much to summon the image of Julio Guerra to mind. The Azteca capo was slender and tall and he cultivated two thin mustaches as if he was an old-time matinee idol. He had been in prison three times and with his shirt off there was no mistaking him for anything but a member of Los Aztecas; their marks were all over him.

“How much do you trust Víctor Barrios?” Paco asked.

“Not at all. Why?”

“He could be telling them everything in there.”

“If he’d told them anything, we would have heard from the other teams by now. They’d strip those stash houses to the bare walls. No, he’s scared enough to do what he’s told.”

“More scared of you than he is of his own family?”

Matías paused with his eye to the camera. “Yes,” he said finally. “Just enough. Someone’s coming out.”

The doors of the club parted, held by two doormen in sharp, red uniforms. For a moment all Matías could see was women: a pair of girls with teased out hair, one of them bleached a startling blonde. Then he saw the man. He clutched at Paco’s arm. “What?” Paco said.

“Look,” Matías said and handed over the camera.

Paco did look. “Guerra,” he said.

Matías tapped the shoulder of the agent in the passenger seat. “Are you getting this?”

“All on video,” said the man. The window was cracked to admit the lens of a high-definition camera.

“Be ready to move,” Matías told the driver.

“What about Víctor?” Paco asked.

“Víctor can find his way home without an escort tonight. We finally have Guerra out in the open and I want to see where he goes.”

The SUV’s engine turned over and the air conditioner started to whir. Matías took the camera away from Paco and took a dozen stills of Julio Guerra waiting at the curb for his car to come around. Another man was with him, probably the driver. Matías’ heart was beating faster.

The car came. It was a white Mercedes S-Class. The driver held the back door for Guerra and the girls, then went round to his side. In moments they were moving and so was the SUV, pulling away from the curb and falling into place in traffic, two cars back from Guerra’s. The agent in the passenger’s seat got on the radio and reported their movement.

“Don’t lose him,” Matías said.

“I won’t,” said the driver.

They passed through the center of the city. Matías’ driver never edged too close, nor did he let Guerra get too far away. The balance was delicate, interwoven with vehicles that came and went along the way. Matías wondered if they would hit a roadblock and, if they did, what Guerra would do. Did he have drugs in the car? Perhaps. Guns? Almost certainly.

Matías did not notice the old Cadillac when it pulled up alongside Guerra’s Mercedes at a red light. The white gleam of the Mercedes had all of Matías’ attention. He did not even notice when the windows on the Cadillac went down and the gun barrels poked out.

Automatic weapons fire exploded on the street, tearing up the space between the Cadillac and the Mercedes. Matías saw the windows of the Mercedes burst, and paint stripped away as bullets tracked the metal. He was dimly aware of shouting at the agent to call out on the radio
now
and of drawing his weapon, throwing the door wide.

His feet hit the pavement and he was back in himself. The cars between the SUV and Guerra’s Mercedes were jammed against one another in their haste to be away from the killing zone. Now their drivers and their passengers were ducked down, out of sight, and that was the smartest thing they could do.

Another burst of rounds buried themselves in the Mercedes and then the Cadillac gunned its engine. Matías dashed forward, firing his pistol at the car as it screeched away. Paco was there, too, but their weapons popped like firecrackers where once there’d been the roar of assault rifles.

“Go, go, go!” Matías shouted to the agent behind the wheel of the SUV. The driver drove up on the sidewalk and skirted the sea of shattered glass and broken metal, lights behind the grille flickering and an electronic siren blaring. In a second it was gone, after the Cadillac, its sound retreating quickly.

Matías approached the Mercedes with his gun up. One side of the car was peppered from nose to tail with bullet holes and both the tires on that side were blown. Blood painted the inside of the windshield where the driver took a round in the neck. Matías tried the rear door and found it unlocked.

Julio Guerra and the girls were slumped over one another in the back seat, their faces stained red, eyes still staring. Matías expected to see a gun in Guerra’s hand, but they were both empty.

“
Jesucristo
,” Paco said. “Matías, what happened?”

Matías holstered his weapon. “Julio Guerra was just eliminated from our investigation.”

ELEVEN

“Y
OU SHOULDN’T BE AT MY HOME
,” V
ÍCTOR SAID
.

They stood in the shadowed front room of Víctor’s apartment – Matías, Paco and Víctor – with the door firmly closed. A PFM vehicle sat down on the street, watching the ways to and from. If the agents inside saw anything, they would call Matías on the radio he wore on his waist.

“Are you telling me what to do?” Matías asked sharply. “I hope that’s not what you’re doing, Víctor.”

The man flinched as if slapped. “No, no,” he said. “It’s just that somebody might see you.”

“No one saw us. We were never here,” Matías said.

Víctor was still dressed for a night out, in a fancy shirt and slacks. He was barefoot, though, and for some reason this struck Matías as funny. Barefoot on his threadbare carpet in a tiny apartment. It made him seem pathetic.

“What do you want with me?” Víctor asked.

“You heard about what happened to Guerra tonight?”

“Yes. We all know.”

“Then tell me.”

“It was the Sinaloenses.”

“You know this for sure?”

“It has to be! We’ve had trouble with the Mexicles lately. Maybe it was them. The pressure is on in Juárez, man! It’s not safe to be an Azteca anymore.”

Matías barked a laugh. “When was it ever safe?”

“I’m telling you all I know.”

Matías took one step toward Víctor and the man shrank back. It was dark, but Matías could read Víctor’s face well enough. “Who takes over for Guerra?”

“R-Renato, probably. He’s been doing a lot for Julio lately.”

“Renato Durán?” Paco asked.

“It makes sense,” Matías said. “He’s one of Guerra’s lieutenants. I just didn’t know how close.”

“Real close,” Víctor volunteered. “Renato does everything Julio says.”

“Does that include the shipping deal?” Matías asked. “Does it?”

“I don’t know! Renato was there a few times when I talked to Julio about meeting with José. I think he knows what’s going on. Julio never told me I had to keep my mouth shut.”

Matías looked around the room at the bare walls, the slumping couch, the little television and stereo. There were no windows here. He imagined the whole apartment penned up without a ray of outside light. A cell for Víctor Barrios.

He thought. If the plan with the shipping depot died with Julio Guerra, then the Americans would be unhappy. But there was still Renato Durán. Renato could save everything.

Matías pointed at Víctor. “I want you to go to Renato as soon as you can and find out if the deal with the trucks is still on. Tell him that José Martinez wants to know. And when you find out the answer, you contact me right away. No bullshit from you, do you understand? I can’t have Julio Guerra, but I’m still going to make my case.”

“I’ll do it,” Víctor said quickly.

“After this you better think about someplace to take a vacation,” Paco said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means if you keep coming through for us, you get a walk,” Matías said, “but staying in Juárez is no good for your health. If you want my advice, you leave just as soon as we’re done.”

“When will that be?”

“Soon. Find out about those trucks. Then I’ll let you know.”

Matías went to the door, cracked it first and peered out into the hallway. There was no one there. He let Paco out first and followed close behind. As soon as they hit the street they piled into the back seat of the waiting PFM sedan. “Go,” Paco said.

“Goddamned Mexicles,” Matías said. “They couldn’t keep it in their pants.”

“You think Víctor is telling the truth, then?”

“Why not? It makes sense. The Sinaloa cartel is cleaning house all through the city. Of all the goddamned bad timing! If this goes to hell before the Aztecas can send even one truck over the border there are going to be some very unhappy Americans.”

Streetlights slid by. It was well past midnight.

“What should we do?” Paco asked.

“We wait for Víctor to find out if it’s still on. Then we do what we planned to do all along: let them make their delivery and sweep up behind them. Julio Guerra might be dead, but his family is still alive to do his bidding. I’m not going to let that
cabrón
buy the rest of them out of jail by dying on me.”

“Okay, Matías. We’ll keep on.”

“What other choice do we have?”

TWELVE

F
LIP SAW
J
OSÉ’S
L
EXUS AS SOON AS
C
LAYTON’S
truck turned the corner onto Flip’s street. It was parked in front of his mother’s house, looking something out of place along the curb where older model cars usually sat. Flip could not see if José was inside.

Clayton came up behind the Lexus and stopped. “See you tomorrow,” he told Flip.

“Yeah. See you. Thanks, Clayton.”

“No problem.”

So far Clayton hadn’t asked why Flip no longer rode with Alfredo, even though Alfredo was okay behind the wheel again. Flip offered to pitch in for Clayton’s gas and the man was happy to accept. Flip hoped the arrangement would last long enough for him to make a better one; he wouldn’t be riding with Alfredo again.

The Lexus’ engine wasn’t running. Flip stooped down to look through the tinted windows of the car, half-expecting to see José’s profile, but the front seats were empty.

He went up the walk slowly, his mind working. The house looked the same and he heard no sounds from inside. When he reached the door he used his key and stepped into the air conditioning.

A murmur of voices carried from the kitchen, and then Flip heard his mother call him. “Felipe! We’re in here!”

Flip went to the kitchen and saw his mother there at the table. Across from her sat José, dressed down like he had been when he
met Alfredo. He wasn’t even wearing his big watch. When he laid eyes on Flip he smiled and the smile was relaxed and open. “Hey, Flip,” he said, “we’ve been waiting for you.”

“Mamá, is everything all right?” Flip asked.

“Everything’s fine. I was talking to your friend José. Why haven’t you introduced us before?”

“I never thought about it,” Flip said. Then to José he asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I came by to see you, but I was early,” José said. “Silvia was kind enough to let me in.”

“Sit down, Felipe. You want something to drink? I made
limonada
. Have some.”

Flip took a seat at the table between his mother and José. His brain felt airy, as if he wasn’t quite there with them, but when he looked at José that sensation went away. Flip’s mother poured him a glass of
limonada
from a pitcher. Slices of lemon floated on the ice.

“José says he might have a job for you,” Flip’s mother said.

“What kind of job?”

“Carpenter’s work, of course. José says his company builds houses.”

“Good, solid houses,” José said.

“More
limonada
, José?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Felipe, you look tired. Are you tired?”

“I’m okay, Mamá,” Flip said, but he kept his eyes on José. “I just didn’t expect visitors, is all. When is Alfredo coming over?”

“Not tonight. He says his arm is hurting him.”

José frowned. “That’s too bad. I would have liked to meet Alfredo. Flip talks about him. He sounds like a great guy.”

“He asked me to marry him. This is the ring.”

“It’s beautiful!”

Flip cleared his throat. “Mamá, I think maybe I’ll go out with José for a while. Is that okay? You don’t have to fix dinner for me.”

“I’ll make sure he eats,” José told Flip’s mother.

“Okay, but make sure you change out of those smelly work clothes. You have fresh shirts in your closet. I ironed them.”

“Thanks, Mamá.”

He got up from the table and left José with his mother. Back in his room he changed clothes quickly. The sudden sound of his mother’s laughter passed through the walls. José laughed, too.

On impulse, Flip brought out the thin wire and the recording device from where he hid it in his chest of drawers. It took a moment to fix the wire to his belly and chest and it was invisible once he pulled his undershirt over it. Anyone who noticed the digital recorder’s outline in his pocket would think it was a pack of smokes.

Flip got back to them in just a few minutes. Nothing seemed to have changed at the table. José sat there and Flip’s mother was there, the pitcher of
limonada
between them. José looked at him and for a moment Flip had no voice. Then he said, “I’m ready. You ready, José?”

“I think so,” José said and he drained his glass. “Silvia, thank you so much for the
limonada
. It was nice to finally meet you.”

Flip’s mother clasped hands briefly with José. “It’s good to meet friends of Flip’s. He doesn’t have very many. He’s always been shy.”

“Shy? Well, I guess so. Come on, Flip.”

They went outside and Flip’s mother locked the front door behind them. José led the way to his car, spinning his keychain on one finger and for a second whistling some fragment of a tune Flip didn’t recognize.