The Rules of Wolfe (10 page)

He puts the phone back together and returns it to her tote, then checks the map. Guaymas is less than fifty miles up the highway. The highway forks a few miles south of the city, one branch passing through the town, the other looping around it but passing through a toll station. Forget the loop.

Miranda returns with a whole grilled chicken, a half dozen cheese empanadas, some roasted ears of corn, a variety of small pastries, two big paper cups of coffee. The aromas are delectable.

But he has spotted a helicopter low in the sky and coming from the direction of Obregón. Maybe it's a commercial craft. Or maybe not.

He cranks up the Durango and wheels out of the plaza lot, an empanada in one hand, and turns onto a frontage road that a mile farther on merges into the northbound traffic of the federal highway.

9

The Boss

That morning the Boss receives a summoned Elizondo Morales in his office. The room is almost chilly with air-conditioning, yet Morales's face shines with sweat. He confirms for the Boss that he hired Porter back in March. The kid was brought to him by Alberto Desmayo, chief of the crew that collects arms purchases throughout the central zone. Desmayo had met Porter at Patria Chica, a large ranch in San Luis Potosí state belonging to the Little family.

The Boss knows who the Littles are, though he has never met any of them in person. A clan descended from an American who settled in Mexico long ago, hence the surname. Even as they prospered in beef cattle and thoroughbred horses, they have also trafficked in an assortment of illegal trades, mainly arms brokering, and mainly for a Mexico City group called Los Jaguaros. By way of the Littles, the Company has been buying guns from the Jaguaros since before he became the Boss. He has never met any of them, either.

Morales explains that Desmayo has been making the arms pickups from Patria Chica for three years and has come to know the Littles well. On his most recent trip there, they introduced Porter to him as a distant in-law from Tampico who'd had to leave there a few weeks before because of some trouble with the law. While they were loading the arms, the kid asked Desmayo if there was any chance of getting a job with the Sinas. The Littles seemed surprised that he was willing to leave them, but Porter said he wanted to do something more exciting than work with cows and horses and sometimes load guns on trucks. Desmayo told the kid the only Company jobs he'd heard of lately were for a couple of guards at a ranch the Company chiefs at times use for special parties. He warned him it was a shitty job, way the hell in the desert, no drinking or phones allowed, no women on the premises.

Morales interrupts himself to assure the Boss that he means no offense in his description of the ranch job but is only repeating what Desmayo told the kid. The Boss shows no expression and gestures for him to continue.

When Porter said he wanted the job anyway, Desmayo told him it was of course required that a guard be a good shot with a rifle, and he would have to prove it before he was hired. So the kid got a rifle from a truck and showed how well he could shoot. Put on a hell of a show, according to Desmayo, who agreed to take Porter back to Culiacán with him and recommend him for the job. The Littles tried to talk him out of going, but the kid was set on it.

So Desmayo brought him to me, Morales says, and I made him show
me
that he can shoot, and I have to say, he's a deadeye. He looked pretty strong and healthy, so I saw no reason not to hire him. I am truly very sorry to hear of what happened to El Segundo, my chief. When I was informed of it this morning, I immediately sent a copy of Porter's file to Tiburón. Believe me, if I'd had the least suspicion that Porter—

The Boss raises a hand to silence him. He has been weighing in his mind whether Morales made an error in hiring the kid. It is Morales's good fortune that he has decided he did not. He has determined that Morales could not possibly have known Porter would be trouble. He thanks Morales for his report and tells him to go back to work. And nearly sighs at the great relief on Morales's face. How can a man bear to live in such fear of another?

He considers having the transport chief, the Desmayo fellow, brought to him for a talk. Then decides against that too. The kid had worked for the Littles, which was recommendation enough for Desmayo to in turn recommend him to Morales. Nothing questionable about it. And the Littles would never have let the kid come here if they'd known he was a crazy bastard capable of jeopardizing their ties with the Company. Money always comes first with them. It's in their gringo blood. Desmayo could not know anything about Porter except for what the Littles told him. Could not know anything he should have told Morales but did not.

So does the Boss decide.

p

Shortly past noon he receives a call from Tiburón, who with customary straightforwardness reports that Porter was twice spotted driving north and was both times pursued and both times escaped. In the first instance, two Company men were killed in a multi-vehicle smashup in Ciudad Obregón. In the second, two Company men and two state cops in the pay of the Company chased him into a sugarcane field north of town where all four were later found dead. Witnesses to the beginning of the second chase said a police car was after a black SUV and then another black SUV sped after the cops, but none of the witnesses could identify the make of either of the civilian vehicles. A police helicopter was dispatched and spotted the cop car and one of the SUVs in the cane field and directed a squadron of cops to the scene. The SUV was the Boss's Escalade—whose registration is in the name of an orphan child who died five years ago in Mexico City. The police interpretation is that the cops got caught in a fight between rival gangs. They think the two cops tried to call for help but their radio malfunctioned. They have identified the dead guys in the cane field as ex-convicts with extensive records but are unaware that they were in the Company's employ. They know nothing about the ones who got away other than they were in a black SUV.

All this information, Tiburón tells him, derives from police reports that were copied to the Company's underboss in Ciudad Obregón as soon as they were filed at police headquarters. Copies are en route to the Boss. The Obregón underboss apprised Tiburón that the two Sinas in the cane field had been driving a Dodge Durango, and so Porter obviously fled in it, though by now he may have switched to another vehicle.

Tiburón has also spoken with the head of the Little family, who expressed dismay on learning of Porter's murder of Enrique and asked that his condolences be conveyed to the Boss. He assured Tiburón that nobody at Patria Chica had heard from Porter or expected to hear from him, but if the kid should make contact they would let the Sinas know right away. The Little boss said their kinship to the kid was too remote for it to warrant any disturbance of their long association with the Company.

In short, Tiburón says, the Littles see it as Porter's fuckup and Porter's problem. The kid's on his own.

The Boss smiles tightly in appreciation of his own prescience.

Tiburón has posted Company men at every airport and train depot and major bus station north of Guaymas and between the seacoast and the Sierras, and the word has gone out to every private airfield. But, he tells the Boss, he believes Porter has anticipated all of that and will stick to the road and try for the border. All of the Company's lookouts on the coast and along the mountain roads have been alerted and there are men at every toll station. But if Porter's as smart as he seems to be, Tiburón is sure he will avoid those riskier courses and will head for the backcountry roads. If he gets into them, there's not much chance of intercepting him before he reaches the frontier. On the other hand, he'll have to take it a lot slower on those trails and probably won't reach the border till late tomorrow. The only real question is where. The kid was with the Company long enough to know how easily they can cover the main highway exits and toll stations, the ports of entry. He must know how stupid it would be to try for California on the only road through the Altar Desert. He's probably figured out the only choice he's got is to cross somewhere between Nogales and Sonoyta. That still gives him a door some 125 miles wide, but it's the worst part of the desert and he'll have to cross it on foot. Maybe he's crazy enough to try it on his own, but his only real chance is with a guide. His picture has gone out to all the known coyotes in Sasabe and Sonoyta. The Company is of course not the only organization smuggling drugs and migrants in that region—the Baja outfit and its undergangs persist in their encroachments, and God alone knows how many independents are still at it despite the dozen or more of them killed in warning this past year—but word of the fat reward for him has been spread all along the line, and Tiburón has ordered lookouts assigned to every hotel, motel, and private residence where coyotes are known to assemble their chickens in readiness to take them across.

If the kid looks for a guide in either place, Tiburón says, we'll have him.

The Boss agrees with Tiburón's assessment of Porter's intentions and approves of the actions he has taken to try to intercept him. But the assessment is full of “ifs” and it's clear enough that despite Tiburón's efforts to nail the kid at the frontier, the fucker may still get away.

Keep me posted, the Boss says. His tone a cool veneer over his anger.

p

He deliberates briefly after the report from Tiburón and then taps a number into his phone.

A recorded voice says, “Digame.”

The dealership has a new truck in stock, says the Boss. Very good price. Give him a call. And presses the “off” button.

Not a minute later his phone rings and he says “Bueno” and a man asks, What is it?

Are you free to accept it immediately?

I am as always free to do as I please. Tell me what it is and I'll tell you if I want it.

They have done business with each other a few times before, the Boss and this man—whose name is Humberto Xinalma, although most have heard of him only as El Martillo. A large man of great strength, he is a former member of a band of Mexican Special Forces deserters known as Los Zetas, an organization of enforcers for the Gulf cartel—though the Zetas have recently formed their own drug operation as well as begun vending their enforcement services to other organizations besides the Gulf people. More than a year ago, however, El Martillo went into business for himself and has fared well as an independent contractor. It is said that he could have been an excellent police detective, that he misses no detail, that he can know your next move before you do. He works with a partner named José Sarasate, known as El Pico, tall and lean and clean-shaven, with an almond-shaped head, and he too is a former Zeta. They are natives of Nogales and thoroughly familiar with the desert, and both can speak English. On their most recent assignment for the Boss, they put a stop to the snooping of a pair of nettlesome newspaper reporters from Aguascalientes, leaving the heads on the front seat of their editor's car.

After the Boss gives him a summary of the situation with Porter, Martillo says, You did not say how he killed your brother.

Strangled. From behind.

He's that good? This kid?

He's been that lucky.

He offers Martillo the usual fee if he kills him and can prove he did. Should the proof consist of Porter's head, he gets a bonus of twenty-five percent. Should he deliver Porter to him alive, his fee will be doubled. Should someone else get Porter first, Martillo may keep one-third of the advance.

If necessary, do I go over the line to complete the job? Martillo asks.

The Boss understands it's riskier over there and he agrees to Martillo's price if he has to cross the border to get him. I don't care if you have to chase him to fucking Chicago, he says.

Understood, Martillo says. You say he's now around Guaymas?

That's the latest information.

One moment, Martillo says. And a few seconds later says, I'll take it. Payment by the usual arrangement.

Of course, the Boss says.

Send the information to Mamá García's, Martillo says, referring to a backstreet diner in Hermosillo, one of many Sonora venues he uses as message centers.

It's on the way, the Boss says. Will you give me periodic reports?

He already knows the answer, and Martillo knows he knows, and says nothing.

Others do, Boss says.

Am I others? Martillo says.

The Boss checks his irritation. All right, I'll hear from you when I do.

Correct, Martillo says.

10

Alberto Desmayo

Alberto Desmayo is having a late-morning coffee at a restaurant near the Plazuela Rosales and ogling a happy group of chattering teenage girls in miniskirts at a nearby table when Mono Vásquez comes rushing in and sits down beside him. In a breathless whisper Mono gives him the news of Porter's killing of El Segundo the night before and his escape with Segundo's bitch. The story has been racing through the Company. Vásquez is a member of Desmayo's arms pickup crew and well remembers the Porter kid and the shooting exhibition he put on at Patria Chica.

They say the Boss had Morales brought to the office and chewed his ass for hiring the fucker, Vásquez whispers. The guys were taking bets if Morales would come out alive but he was lucky. Anyway, the word is, they got Porter cut off every way but by car. They say he's headed north and gonna try crossing the frontier on foot. Fucker's gotta be crazy. The Boss has promised a fat reward to the guy who brings him the kid's head. Man, wouldn't I like to collect that!

Why don't you try?

Give me the time off with pay and I will.

Go fuck yourself, Desmayo says. He stands up and brushes crumbs from his shirtfront. While you're doing that, I'll be fucking a little cutie I got waiting for me across town.