Tequila Sunset (37 page)

Matías saw Felix Rivera, carrying a shotgun and armored like the rest of his men. They shook hands. “Nice and smooth,” Felix said.

“We’ll pull their records apart,” Matías said. “The Aztecas’ contact here has been taking cash payments for months. This isn’t the first time they’ve shipped from this place.”

“What about the truck with the goods?”

“On its way to America.”

“A good day. We’re executing raids on the stash houses as we speak.”

Matías’ phone rang. He parted from Felix and answered. “
Bueno
.”

“Matías, it’s me.”

“Elvira! Now’s not a good time.”

“What are you doing?”

Matías looked along the line of detainees, cross-legged with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Almost all of them would be released, but first they would be questioned and the fear of God put into each and every one of them. The worst off would be Gonzalo Flores. Matías expected he would not even need Sosa and Galvan for him.

“Matías?”

“I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”

“No, I’m getting on a plane.”

“A plane? To where?”

“To Juárez.”

“
Elvira
… why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you’d be glad.”

“I am glad. It’s just that I won’t be home until late tonight.”

“I can wait for you.”

Matías’ lip trembled and for a moment he thought he might cry, but it would do no good for anyone to see him that way. He put his hand over his face. “I’m happy you decided to come back,” he said.

“I’ll see you tonight. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

There were many things to do and clearing up the shipping depot was only one of them. The detainees were rounded into wagons and transported to the local command center where they could be processed. Tattooed Aztecas were kept separate from the
civilians. Agents were in and out of interview rooms. The sheer amount of paperwork was enough to bury Matías for two weeks.

Paco returned from the border with news that the truck had crossed over without incident. He dived into the sea of forms alongside Matías and there was much coffee and takeout food consumed. Every time Matías looked up, another hour had vanished.

Finally he’d had enough. He straightened up in his chair at a borrowed desk and stretched until his back popped. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m finished.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re finished.”

“I can’t look at another page. We’ll go at it again tomorrow.”

“What about Flores? Did you want to interview him tonight?”

Matías shook his head. “Let him sweat it out in a cell for now. He can wait.”

“I don’t understand. I figured you’d want to work all night.”

“Elvira came home,” Matías said.

“What? That’s terrific!”

“I’d like to get home before midnight,” Matías said. “And before I’m useless. You should go home, too. Daniela will be surprised.”

“Maybe I will. And listen, Matías…”

“Yes?”

“Good job today.”

“It was a team effort. You were with me all the way. I just did what I had to do. Good-night, Paco.”

He left the building and found his car. The lot was still crowded. Many police would work through the night. A part of him felt guilty for leaving them for this, but he knew mostly they would understand.

It was too late to find a florist open, but an all-night
farmacia
had cheap bouquets for sale by the register. Matías picked one with yellow and red flowers. The clerk complimented his choice.

The block was crowded near the apartment and he was forced
to park a ways from the building. The street was quiet and the city was calm. He did not hear the crackle of gunfire from some faraway place.

He was curious to know how things had gone on the American side. Tomorrow he would call Jamie McPeek and she would tell him everything. Matías almost skipped to the door.

In the vestibule he paused to check the mail, but there was none. Elvira must have collected it. He put his keys in the lock of the inner door when the outer door swung wide.

Matías couldn’t turn before the first bullets struck him. The noise was thunderous in the confined space and he went deaf in the instant he was torn apart. He dropped the bouquet and it fell into blood. His feet slipped. He could not stand. The shooter kept on until his gun was empty, then let the door close. Matías imagined the sound of running footsteps down the sidewalk.

He was stained with red and more was coming all the time. Matías tasted copper in his mouth. When he slumped over he saw his keys were still dangling from the lock.

Elvira, he thought. There was more, but it clouded over and he was borne away.

NINETEEN

C
RISTINA SAW
F
LIP LEAVE THE WAREHOUSE
in his girlfriend’s car and one by one the other employees headed on their way. Alfredo Rodriguez was the last to go, pausing at his truck for a long time, casting his gaze back toward the building as if he was considering going back inside. Cristina wished him away. “Come on,” she said under her breath. “Don’t be stupid.”

“There he goes,” Robinson said.

Space was at premium on the road outside the warehouse gate and the car Cristina and Robinson rode in was one of only three lined up along the face of a vacant lot facing the building. One held a quartet of DEA agents, the other a like number of El Paso police. Any more and they risked tipping off the Aztecas when they came for their truck. The truck that idled on the west side of the warehouse, the driver still behind the wheel. Cristina tried to imagine how much they were paying the man to take this risk. Probably not much.

More police waited a block away in the parking lot of a closed-down fast-food restaurant. They would swing into place once Cristina, Robinson and the others moved. No one knew how many Aztecas to expect, but they were ready to handle the situation however it played out.

They waited nearly an hour before another vehicle came up the road. Cristina spotted them in the side mirror coming closer: a dark blue pick-up truck with a cherry shine, followed by a green
sedan. The pick-up passed them and left-handed through the gates. There were at least three in the king cab. The sedan was full.

Cristina drew her weapon, checked it. Beside her, Robinson did the same. “Five or six guys,” Cristina said. “Easy.”

“Just watch yourself,” Robinson said.

“I’m always careful.”

The pick-up and sedan pulled alongside the Mexican truck and disgorged their passengers. There were eight Aztecas altogether and they fanned out in the empty yard, forming a loose perimeter around the trucks. At this distance Cristina could not see if they were armed. She had to assume they would be.

The Mexican driver got down from his seat and came around the back to unlock the cargo area. The truck had an extendable ramp. He put that down and walked up inside with one of the Aztecas.

The radio beside Cristina squawked. “Salas, we’re waiting on your go.” That was Hanning, one of the DEA agents.

Cristina took up the radio. “Give it a minute. I want to see the stuff coming out.”

As if on command the Mexican truck driver and the Azteca reappeared, carrying square bundles that looked heavy. An Azteca put down the tailgate of the pick-up and lifted the plastic shell that covered the bed. The men moved toward it.

“Okay, let’s go. Everybody go,” Cristina said.

Cristina hit the siren and peeled away from the curb, leaving rubber trails behind. The car jounced as it crossed the threshold of the warehouse gate. Behind her the other cars had their lights and sirens going. They came up alongside quickly and all three screeched to a halt a dozen yards from the pick-up.

She bailed out of the driver’s seat with the engine still running, vaguely aware of Robinson doing the same. Cristina saw Aztecas breaking for the far end of the warehouse, but others stood where they were as if frozen. The nearest Azteca had his back to her and did not move.

“Police! Everybody get down on the ground!” Robinson bellowed.

Cristina came out from behind the shield of the driver’s side door, weapon out and leveled on the closest Azteca. He still had not moved. “Get down on the ground
now
!” she shouted.

He turned. The movement was so casual that Cristina could only look at him as he faced her. She saw him clearly: a young man in his early twenties, a tattoo on his neck, a t-shirt worn beneath an open short-sleeved shirt. His jeans rode too low on his hips.

The gun in his fist caught the angled sunlight. It was a ridiculous weapon, one of the heavy, oversized .44 automatics that looked good being carried around. A gun to be seen. Cristina saw the barrel pointed directly at her and then the flash.

Robinson was yelling, the DEA agents were yelling. A crippling blow crashed into her chest, crushing the wind out of her lungs, spiking pain. She was hurled back against the open car door and the side mirror struck her on the back of the head. Cristina saw bright light. Then she was down and she could not breathe.

Weapons fired on both sides of her, but Cristina did not see the Azteca go down. She could only picture it as she stared up into the sky, struggling to take a breath. There was the dimmest awareness of her pistol resting in her right hand, but she couldn’t move her limbs. The asphalt beneath her was flat and hot.

Suddenly Robinson was above her, filling her vision and blocking out the sky. Her head was buzzing from lack of oxygen. Robinson touched her cheek and called her name. His words filtered through to her slowly.
Breathe, goddamn it. Breathe!

Cristina struggled to fill her lungs and then at all once she was able to suck down air. Her whole chest was on fire, as if her ribs were cracked. Robinson supported her head, still telling her to breathe, breathe.

“Freddie…” she managed to say.

“You’re all right,” Robinson said. “It didn’t go through. Your vest stopped it. You’re all right.”

She reached for Robinson’s arm and gripped it. Now she felt heady, on the verge of passing out. There were still sparkling flecks in her vision. “Freddie,” she said again.

“You’re going to see Freddie,” Robinson said.

Mom is going to be all right and she’ll always come home to you. I promise.

“I promise,” Cristina said.

TWENTY

H
E SAT IN
G
RACIELA’S LITTLE APARTMENT
on the undersized couch, listening to the rattle of the air conditioner and the babble of the television. Graciela worked in the compact kitchen making something, he didn’t know what. When his phone rang, Flip saw it was José.

“That son of a bitch,” José said to Flip. “That
hijo de puta
!”

Flip was still. It had been hard to leave the warehouse and harder still to come home with Graciela knowing what happened next. They told him not to worry. They told him José would be taken with all the others. But he had known, he had
known
, and now José was on the phone. “What’s happening?”

“That bastard boss of yours sold us out!”

“Alfredo?”

“Yes, Alfredo! That shit-sucking bastard told the cops. They were all over the warehouse when we came to get the stuff! Who knows what else they know! I can’t get through to anybody.”

“Where are you now?” Flip asked.

“I’m on the road with Angel and Fernando. Where are you?”

“At Graciela’s,” Flip said, and immediately regretted it.

“Meet me at the apartment. Ten minutes. Meet me right now. We have to figure out how to work this.”

“I don’t know what I can do,” Flip said.

“Just meet me!” José said and killed the call.

Flip felt the tremors threatening. His stomach was cold. He sat
woodenly on the couch hearing nothing but his own heartbeat. Then he called the detectives. Their phones both went to voice mail.

“Who was that?” Graciela asked from the kitchen.

“José. I have to meet him.”

“Now?”

Flip nodded stiffly. “Now.”

“But I almost have dinner ready.”

He got up from the couch and went to Graciela. He put his arms around her and held her tightly for as long as he dared, because if he held on too long he would not let go. “I’ll be back,” he said.

“How long?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be back. I need to borrow your car.”

“You don’t have a license.”

“I know how to drive. Just let me borrow it.”

Graciela left the two-burner stove reluctantly and found her keys in her purse. “Don’t wreck it.”

“I won’t.”

Flip went down to the street and got into the car. It felt strange to have a steering wheel under his hands. For a seemingly endless moment he just sat, afraid to turn the key, afraid to go. He started the car.

José’s Lexus was in the parking lot when he got there. He saw no one in the pool, but a floating lounge kicked around at the edge, abandoned and caught in the circulating current. He held the keys to the apartment in his hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. Every step to the second floor was an effort. At the door time expanded again and it seemed a long while before he put key to lock and let himself in.

The three of them were in the living room. José was pacing. “It’s about fucking time,” José said. “I thought they got you, too.”

“I’m here,” Flip said.

“Angel, Fernando, wait outside,” José commanded the two big
men. “If you see anything, you holler out. Go.”

Flip stood aside to let them out and shut the door behind them. José was pacing again.

“That motherfucker Alfredo must have told them everything,” José said. “Now they’re all over the family. Nobody’s answering their phones. It’s just you and me now, Flip.”

“If the cops know everything, then they know about this place,” Flip said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but maybe not. I didn’t see anybody when we came.”

José threw himself down into a chair and ran a hand through his hair. He was sweating badly and it showed through his shirt. A vein stood out prominently in his forehead.