The Rules of Wolfe

The Rules
of Wolfe

Other Works

By James Carlos Blake

Novels

Country of the Bad Wolfes

The Killings of Stanley Ketchel

Handsome Harry

Under the Skin

A World of Thieves

Wildwood Boys

Red Grass River

In the Rogue Blood

The Friends of Pancho Villa

The Pistoleer

Collection

Borderlands

The Rules
of Wolfe

p

A Border Noir

James Carlos Blake

The Mysterious Press

New York

Copyright © 2013 by James Carlos Blake

Jacket design by Daniel Rembert; Jacket photographs: sunset © Morey Milbradt/Alamy; car and people © Johannes Leister

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9329-2

The Mysterious Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

154 West 14th Street

New York, NY 10011

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

In memory of

Juan Cano Blake

You're going to have things to repent, boy. . . . That's one of
the best things there is. You can always decide whether to
repent them or not. But the thing is to have them.

—Ernest Hemingway, “The Last Good Country”

. . . unknowing youth, savage with health and
armed to the teeth with time.

—Philip Roth,
Exit Ghost

There is nothing either good or bad,
but thinking makes it so.

—William Shakespeare,
Hamlet

Life
is
trouble. Only death is not.
To be alive is to undo your belt and
look
for trouble.

—Nikos Kazantzakis,
Zorba the Greek

Prologue

Rudy and Frank

Eddie Gato pleaded with us to take him on that run last winter but we said no. We'd been having the same argument with him for months. So had others in the family. He said we didn't have to let anybody else know—we could keep it between us. Frank told him that's not how we do things, not among ourselves, and if he didn't know that by now he still had things to learn.

Frank's my big brother. Eddie's our cousin and was all of nineteen years old.

“I've got everything it takes for this business,” Eddie said, “and you guys know
that
.”

He did have what it takes, no question about it, and I understood his frustration. But that wasn't the point. For the umpteenth time, I told him if he really wanted to work with us all he had to do was hold to the rule.

“That's another three
years
,” Eddie said.

“That's how it works,” Frank said, stroking his mustache the way he does when he's tired of arguing.

“Fuck the rule,” Eddie said, and headed for the door, muttering something under his breath that sounded very much like “And both you too.”

I said, “What was that?” But he kept going and didn't quite slam the door behind him.

Frank was right. The kid had things to learn.

p

We're a large family, we Wolfes. About half of us live in Cameron County, Texas, and most of the rest in Mexico City. Our Mexico City kin own a couple of investment firms and are partners in one of the country's largest banks. They're also among the capital's social elite, but because several of them have “Jaguaro” as their first or second name, they get a lot of ribbing from their friends about being connected to the shadowy organization called Los Jaguaros, reputed to be a major supplier of arms to some of the criminal cartels. The Mexican Wolfes accept this friendly teasing with good humor and the often expressed wish that their own business might someday be as profitable as the Jaguaros' is said to be.

The truth is, they
are
Los Jaguaros, and we Texas Wolfes not only provide much of their supply, we now and then deliver it to their buyers. It was their guns Frank and I were carrying on that January run Eddie had begged to go on.

The load was three cases of HK-nine pistols and two of M-4 carbines. The buyer was a Tuxpan outfit called Los Cuernos, a small bunch reputed to be in league with the Gulf cartel. It was the first time the Jaguaros had sold to Los Cuernos, and they stressed that point to us in warning to be extra careful. But we always are, whether we're delivering to somebody for the first time or the tenth. We know our business.

The transfer was set for midnight at coordinates a half mile offshore and around twelve miles north of Tampico. The Cuernos had been instructed to get there before us, in a shrimp boat with its nets deployed and three green lights strung vertically from the bow stem. We were in a small trawler rig of false Mexican registry. It had a modified hull for shallow draft and greater speed, and a pair of Hemi engines that could pull your head back when you hit the throttles.

I was at the wheel and Frank was scanning forward with the big 180×70s, looking for the green lights as we drew near the rendezvous spot. A cool offshore breeze carried the tangy smells of the estuaries. The sky encrusted with stars. An amber crescent moon low over the black mainland. The shrimper should have been in sight by then but the only vessel we could see was a tanker on the horizon.

We didn't like the feel of things, and I brought us to a stop a half mile shy of the transfer point. We each had a Browning nine in our waistband, and the wheelhouse locker held a pair of Mossberg 12-gauge pumps holding buckshot loads. With the engines idling we bobbed on the easy swells while Frank kept panning southward with the big glasses.

Then came the faint growl of an engine cranking up near the dark shoreline. And then the unmistakable rumble of it heading our way.

“Speedboat,” Frank said. “It's a rip.”

He switched off the running lights and I spun the wheel to starboard and gunned the Hemis. The acceleration leaned us rearward as the prow rose and we sped toward the barrier of rocky islands forming the outer rim of a lagoon. Frank checked the GPS and shouted a bearing for the nearest inlet. They were running without lights too and we still couldn't see them against the southward coast, but we knew they were trying to cut us off. They could've done it easy if the transfer point had been farther out or we'd made the mistake of getting closer to them before stopping. But then, if we'd done that, they would've nailed us out there. They were cowboys. Come fast and hard and shooting, take you out quick.

I had to slow down for the inlet, and my gut tightened at the roar of them closing on us. They were near enough now for us to see it was one of those open military speedsters but we couldn't tell how many guys were in it.

As I steered into the passage, they cut back on their engine and opened up with automatic rifles, the rounds smacking against the wheelhouse, popping through its glass. Then we were in the lagoon and out of their view, and the question now was whether they knew the place as well as we did.

The lagoon is full of shadowy palm hammocks, but the main channel's open to the sky and I could see well enough to hold to it. We snaked around the hammocks and went past two branching narrower channels before I turned into the next one. I cut off the engines and we bumped to a halt against a mangrove root in the darkness of the overhanging palms.

We figured that if they were familiar with the lagoon they'd play it smart, post a guy at the inlet we came through and patrol the other cuts along the outer bank where we might slip out. We had a plan for that.

But they came in after us. Rumbling slowly up the main channel. Cowboys. Afraid of nothing.

Frank took an angle-head flashlight out of the locker and clipped it to his belt, then handed me a flare gun and one of the Mossbergs. We could've laughed out loud and they wouldn't have heard us over their engine. We hustled out of the boat, crabs scuttling over our boots, some crunching underfoot, and took positions about twenty feet apart on higher ground from which we could see the main channel. I crouched beside a palm that curved sideways and gave me a clear view of the overhead sky.

We heard the boat getting closer. Then its dark form appeared around the channel bend.

When it came abreast of me, not ten yards away, I pointed the flare gun straight up and fired, the discharge muffled by the loudness of the motor.

The flare was set with a quick fuse and burst into a white incandescence about forty feet up, starkly illuminating the five of them, instinctively gaping up at the blinding light—and we started blasting, holding down our triggers after our first shot and pumping the slides as fast as we could in a rapid-fire volley. At such close range in an open boat, they had no chance at all, the buckshot tearing them apart, blowing away portions of them, removing most of the head of the guy at the wheel—who fell against the throttle so that the speedboat roared and veered into the opposite bank and rose straight up and almost completely out of the water before keeling over and crashing back into the channel with a terrific splash and crackling of steam.

They didn't get off a round. It was over before the oscillating parachute flare descended into a palm, gave a few more sputters, and died. And the darkness closed around us again.

Frank turned on the flashlight, holding it out to the side in one hand, his pistol in the other. His beam found each of them in turn, all in awkward sprawls and none moving or making a sound. I set the Mossberg aside and went down the bank and took out the Browning and held it over my head as I waded across the chest-high channel, then slogged out and slipped the pistol back into my pants. Frank held the light on the body nearest to me and I started searching pockets.

The third guy I tried had the money. A wad of American currency that on later count would total exactly what they were supposed to pay us. So why the cross? Their boss put them up to it? They take it on themselves to try to impress him by stealing the load? They sell
him
out? Who the hell knows? It didn't matter to us. This was a Mexican bunch, the Jaguaros' concern. We'd tell them what happened and they'd take it from there.

Then a voice croaked, “Mátame . . . por amor de Dios.”

Frank's light flicked over to a guy on his back at the bottom of the bank slope, his legs in the water. One of the two I hadn't searched. Most of his side had been ripped away and the flashlight exposed a wreckage of ribs and viscera. Unbelievable what a body can survive even for a little while. He wasn't much more than a boy, seventeen, eighteen. A boy who'd been all set to kill us.

“Por favor . . . los jaibos. Me van . . . a comer.”

He was right. You could hear the rustling and clickings of the crabs on the move in the dark. Converging on the fresh bounty. They'd start eating him while he was still alive.

I took out the Browning and cocked it and held the muzzle a few inches from his forehead. His eyes rolled up to regard it. And I fired.

I would've done it in any case. When you make a deal you stick to it. Rock-hard rule. You don't renege, you don't sell out. You hold up your end and expect the other party to do the same. If the other party doesn't, you're entitled to deal with every man of it as you see fit in order to set things right.

No—you're more than entitled. You're obligated. Or the rule would mean nothing.

p

As always after a job that takes us anywhere near Tampico, we spent the next few days there. A pleasant laid-back town, excellent for recouping one's mellow. We dined well on the local cuisine, danced with lots of girls to the tierra caliente music in the plazas, did some cantina crawling. All in all enjoyed ourselves plenty.

At some point it occurred to us that this was the first time we'd ever had any real trouble on a Tampico run. And that Eddie Gato of course would've loved it.

Then we got back home and heard all about the family fight and that Eddie was long gone.