The Cartel Page 8

Contreras will have to try again. It’s a sad day when a man isn’t safe in his own prison. And he has the power to do it, with his private army, the so-called Zetas.

  But now Adán sets those concerns aside for the party. It’s Christmas, time to celebrate. A mariachi band is setting up in the dining hall. Brightly wrapped presents are stacked up against the walls. Trucks have prime rib, lobster, and shrimp. Others are bringing wine, champagne, and whiskey.

  Still another will be delivering his family.

  Such as it is.

  He hasn’t seen his sister, Elena, in years. Nor his own nephew, Salvador, Raúl’s son—a teenager now.

  No, it’s been too long.

  Too long.

  The Tapia brothers and their wives are coming (Adán has strictly banned mistresses and whores from the party; this is meant to be a family day), as are a few of the narcos and favored prisoners—friends of Adán’s—in Puente Grande. The warden has been invited, and some of the higher-ranking guards and their families.

  Security is tight outside.

  Both additional prison guards and Diego’s people patrol outside the main gate. They’ve pulled an armored car sideways across the road to block unwanted vehicles, its machine gun trained to shred any attacker that comes up the highway.

  —

  Nacho Esparza is not at the party. He’s in Mexico City to deliver a Christmas present.

  It’s in a suitcase he carries as he gets out of his car on Paseo de la Reforma in the Lomas de Chapultepec neighborhood of Mexico City.

  He’s familiar with Lomas, a wealthy neighborhood of businesspeople, politicians, and drug traffickers northwest of downtown and literally above the ring of pollution that keeps the city itself in a soup bowl.

  Nacho is as smooth as Diego Tapia is rough, his bald head as slick as his speech. Clean-shaven, immaculate, he favors linen suits and Italian loafers. Today, in honor of Christmas, he’s added a tie.

  He walks to the Marriott hotel on Hidalgo and goes into the lounge, which is quiet on a Christmas afternoon.

  The government official is already there, sitting in an easy chair by a glass table with a drink set on it. Nacho sits across from him and sets the suitcase down. “You’re aware that certain people want this to happen. Tonight.”

  “What certain people want is beyond the scope of my authority,” the official says. “What I can promise is that there will be no interference.”

  “So if something should happen with our friend in Puente Grande…”

  “Then it happens.”

  Nacho gets up.

  He leaves the suitcase.

  —

  A semi truck rolls up to the gate of CEFERESO II.

  Two of Diego’s men, AR-15s in their hands, walk up to the driver. They talk for a few seconds, Diego’s men bark some instructions, and the prison guards back off into the shadows of the walls. The blocking truck pulls aside, the metal door slides open, and the semi truck backs its rear door to the entrance.

  Salvador Barrera hops out of the truck in his black leather jacket and jeans and looks around with all his father’s bluff arrogance. It almost brings tears to Adán’s eyes. Salvador is his father’s son—thick, muscled, aggressive.

  Aggression had been Raúl’s role in the organization. In the terms of cheap journalism, Adán was the brains, his brother Raúl was the muscle. A generalization, of course, but fair enough.

  Raúl had died in Adán’s arms.

  Well, that’s not quite accurate, Adán thinks as he embraces his nephew. Raúl, gut-shot, died from a tiro de gracia that I fired into his head to end his agony.

  Another memory he owes to Art Keller.

  “You’ve grown,” he says, holding Salvador by the shoulders.

  “I’m eighteen,” Salvador answers, just the slightest trace of resentment in his tone.

  I understand it, Adán thinks. Your father is dead and I’m alive. I’m alive and the empire your father died for is shattered. If he were alive, the empire might still be intact.

  And you might be right, my nephew.

  You might be right.

  I will have to find a way of dealing with you.

  Salvador turns away to help his mother from the truck. Sondra Barrera has taken on the trappings of a stereotypical Mexican widow. Her severe dress is black and she clutches a rosary in her left hand.

  It’s a shame, Adán thinks.

  Sondra’s still a pretty woman, she could find another husband. But not looking like a nun waiting for death. A nice dress…a little makeup…maybe an occasional smile…The problem is that Raúl has become a saint in her memory. She has apparently forgotten his endless infidelities, violent bursts of temper, the drinking, the drugs. Among the many names Adán remembers Sondra calling her husband when he was alive, “saint” was not one of them.

  He kisses Sondra on her cheeks. “Sondra…”

  “We always knew,” she says, “that we’d end up here, didn’t we?”

  No, we didn’t, Adán thinks. And if you did, it never stopped you from enjoying the houses, the clothing, the jewelry, the vacations. You knew where the money came from—it never stopped you from spending it.

  Lavishly.

  And, to my knowledge, you never turn down the package of cash that arrives at your house the first of every month. Nor the tuition payments for Salvador’s college, the medical bills, the credit card payments…

  One of Diego’s men reaches up and helps Elena Sánchez Barrera down from the trailer. Wearing a red holiday dress and heels, she looks wryly amused—a (deposed) queen arriving in a slum. “A trailer truck? I feel like a delivery of produce.”

  “But safe from prying eyes.” Adán steps up to greet his sister with a kiss on each cheek.

  She hugs him. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

  “And you.”

  “Are we going to stand here proclaiming our mutual affection,” Elena asks, “or are you going to give us something to drink?”

  Adán takes her by the arm and leads her to the dining hall where Magda stands nervously beside the head of the table, waiting to greet them. She looks quite fetching in a silver lamé dress that is, strictly speaking, a little too short for Christmas with a little too deep a décolletage, but that shows her to great advantage. Her hair is upswept and lustrous, held in place with cloisonné Chinese pins that give her a touch of the exotic.

  “Leave it to you to find a rose in a sewer,” Elena whispers to Adán. “I’ve heard rumors, but…she’s magnificent.”

  She offers her cheek to Magda for a kiss.

  “You’re so beautiful,” Magda says.

  “Oh, I’m going to like her,” Elena says. “And I was just telling Adanito how lovely you are.”

  This is going well, Adán thinks. It could as easily have gone the other way—Elena’s mouth is a jar of honey with a sharp knife in it, and she has already gotten through an entire sentence without alluding to Magda’s youth or his lack thereof. Perhaps she’s mellowed—the Elena he knew would have already asked Magda if he helps her with her homework.

  And the “Adanito”—“Little Adán.” Nice touch.

  “I love your dress,” Magda says.

  Women, Adán thinks, will always be women. In the middle of one of the bleakest prisons on earth, they’ll act like they bumped into each other at an exclusive mall. They’ll be shopping for shoes together next.

  “I’m leaving my children nothing,” Elena says, displaying the dress. “I’m going to spend it all.”

  “Now the party can begin!” Diego yells, making an entrance.

  Everyone smiles at Diego, Adán thinks.

  He’s irresistible.

  Today he’s dressed in his Christmas best—a leather sports coat over a leather vest. A bolo with his purple shirt takes the place of a tie. And he has new jeans—pressed—over silver-tipped cowboy boots.

  Diego’s wife, Chele, is a bit more subdued in a silver-sequined dress and heels, her black hair in an updo. She’s thickened in the hips a
little bit, Adán observes, but she’s still una berraca—hot stuff.

  And a match for her husband, equally blunt. Chele will say anything that’s on her mind, such as her opinions about Diego’s numerous segunderas—she’s all for them. “Better than him wearing me out all the time. Dios mío, I’d have a chocha wider than one of his tunnels.”

  She walks up, hugs and kisses everyone, then steps back and looks at Magda from toe to head. “Dios mío, Adán, you’ve become a mountain climber! Darling girl, don’t the pitones hurt?!”

  From anyone else, it would have been a horribly awkward insult; but it’s Chele, so everyone, even Magda, laughs.

  They’ve brought their children, three boys and three girls ranging from six to fourteen. Adán has given up on keeping their names straight but has made sure that he has a nice gift for each of them.

  Adán had questioned the wisdom of bringing children to the prison, but Chele was firm about it. “This is our life. They need to know what it is, not just the good parts. I won’t have them being ashamed of their family.”

  So the children, impeccably dressed in brand-new holiday clothes, came, and now line up to kiss or shake hands with their tío Adán.

  They’re nice kids, Adán thinks. Chele’s done well with them.

  Diego’s youngest brother is a (much) smaller version of him, the classic case of the sibling becoming the oldest brother, only more so. Alberto Tapia’s one concession to Christmas is a red bolo in his otherwise totally narco-cowboy, norteño outfit—black silk shirt, black slacks, lizard cowboy boots, black cowboy hat.

  Short as he is—and he’s shorter than Adán by at least two inches—the get-up looks comical on him, like a child playing cowboy. No one is going to say that to Alberto, though, because his fuse is shorter than he is.

  Adán worries about Alberto’s violent temper, but Diego assures him that it’s nothing to worry about, that he has his little brother under control.

  I hope so, Adán thinks.

  Alberto seems convivial today, all laughs and smiles, and Adán wonders if he snorted up on the way here. Certainly his wife did—Lupe’s black eyes are pinned and her tight, short dress is wildly inappropriate. Another example of Alberto’s recklessness, Adán thinks. You sleep with strippers if that’s your taste, but you don’t marry them.

  “Just because he bought her tits,” Chele once observed, “doesn’t mean he had to buy the rest of her.” Lupe’s remarkable breasts—cantilevered precariously on her petite frame—notwithstanding, she looks almost childlike, vulnerable, and Adán makes a mental note to be kind to her.

  Former stripper or not, she is Alberto’s wife and therefore family.

  Martín Tapia is the perfect middle child, as different from his brothers as the tyranny of genetics will allow, and the family joke is that a banker crept in one night and impregnated his mother while she was asleep.

  The financial manager and diplomat of the Tapia organization, Martín is soft-spoken, quiet, conservatively dressed in an expensively tailored black suit and white shirt with French cuffs.

  He and his wife, Yvette, have just moved to a big home in an exclusive Cuernavaca neighborhood, close to Mexico City to be nearer to the politicians, financiers, and society types whom they need to cultivate for business.

  His job is to play tennis and golf, have drinks at the nineteenth hole, go to parties at the country club, be seen at expensive restaurants, and throw soirees at their home. Yvette’s job is to look pretty and be the charming hostess.

  They’re both perfect for their jobs.

  Yvette Tapia is another former beauty queen—impeccably dressed in an expensive, stylish black dress on her svelte body—the personification of class. Her hair is cut in a short bob, her makeup is subtle, a slash of red lipstick makes it all sexy.

  She’s perfect.

  “Yvette,” Chele has said, “has the beauty and warmth of an ice sculpture. The only difference is that an ice sculpture eventually melts.”

  In Adán’s day, they would have been called “yuppies.” He’s not sure what the word would be now, but they’re politely tolerant, if mildly embarrassed, at being at the prison party. Yvette smiles thinly at Chele’s jokes, Martín finds topics of conversation that he can share, mostly about fútbol.

  They can’t complain about the meal.

  While it isn’t the nouvelle cuisine they search out in Cuernavaca (they are both self-admitted foodies), but heartier, simpler Sinaloan fare, fresh and beautifully prepared filet mignon, shrimp, lobsters, roast potatoes, and green beans served with expensive wines that even Martín and Yvette can’t find fault with.

  Dessert is the traditional flan, with galetas de Navidad, then champurrado and arroz dulce, after which the piñatas are hung and the children go at them with sticks, and the dining room floor is soon covered with candy and little toys.

  As the evening settles into the post-feast languor, Adán nudges Elena and says, “We should talk.”

  —

  They sit in one of the consultation rooms.

  Adán says, “The situation in Tijuana—”

  “I’ve done the best I could.”

  “I know.”

  Elena took charge only because she was the last Barrera sibling not in a grave or a jail. A number of their people would have rebelled just because she was a woman. Some of the others were Teo’s people anyway. Once he broke away, they went with him. So did a number of the police and judges, who no longer had Raúl or Adán to fear.

  The miracle of it is that Elena has held on as long as she did. She’s a good businessperson but not a war leader. Now she says, “I want out, Adanito. I’m tired. Unless you can give me more help on the ground…”

  “I’m in prison, Elena.” They’re in a staredown, as they so often were in childhood. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then trust me on this,” Adán says. “It will work out, I promise you. I’ll deal with it. I just need a little time.”

  They stand up and she kisses his cheek.

  —

  Diego interrupts playing with his children to take a phone call.

  He listens and nods.

  The Christmas present is on its way.

  —

  “May I have a word?” Sondra asks Adán.

  Adán suppresses a sigh. He wants to enjoy the party, not endure Sondra’s gloom, but, as the head of the family, he has responsibilities.

  It’s Salvador, she tells him when they retreat to a quiet corner. He’s disrespectful, angry. He stays away for nights at a time, he’s cutting classes. He parties, he drinks, she’s afraid he might be doing drugs.

  “He won’t listen to me,” Sondra says, “and there’s no man at home to set him straight. Will you talk to him, Adán? Will you, please?”

  She sounds like an old lady, Adán thinks. He does his math—Sondra is forty-one.

  Salvador is none too pleased when his uncle comes up and asks to talk with him, but he grudgingly follows Adán back to his cell, sits down, and looks at Adán with a combination of resentment and sullenness that is almost impressive. “My mother asked you to do this, right?”

  “What if she did?” Adán asks.

  “You know what she’s like.”

  Yes, I do, Adán thinks. I truly do. But he’s the head of the family so he asks, “What are you doing, Salvador?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With your life,” Adán says. “What are you doing with your life?”

  Salvador shrugs and looks at the floor.

  “Have you dropped out of college?” Adán asks.

  “I’ve stopped going to class.”

  “Why?”

  “Seriously?” Salvador asks. “I’m going to be an architect?”

  It’s so Raúl, Adán almost laughs. “Your father had a medical degree.”

  “And he did a lot with it.”

  Adán gestures to the cell. “Do you want to end up here?”

  “It’s better than where my father
ended up, isn’t it?”

  It’s true, Adán thinks, and they both know it. “What do you want, Salvador?”

  “Let me work with Tío Diego,” he says, looking Adán in the eyes for the first time in this conversation. “Or Tío Nacho. Or send me to Tijuana. I can help Tía Elena.”

  He’s so eager, so sincere all of a sudden, it’s almost sad. The boy wants so badly to redeem his father, Adán hurts for him.

  “Your father didn’t want this for you,” Adán says. “He made me promise. His last words to me.”

  It’s a lie. Raúl’s last words were his begging to be put out of his gut-shot misery. He said nothing about Salvador, or Sondra. What he said was Thank you, brother when Adán pointed the pistol at his head.

  “It was good enough for him,” Salvador says.

  “But he didn’t think it was good enough for you,” Adán insists. “You’re smart, Salvador. You’ve been to the funerals, the prisons…you know what this is. You have money, an education if you want it, connections…You can have a life.”

  “I want this life,” Salvador says.

  As pigheaded as his father.

  “You can’t have it,” Adán says. “Don’t try. And don’t think of freelancing—if I catch anyone selling to you, I’ll have their heads. Don’t make me do that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And straighten up,” Adán says, the stern uncle now, and, anyway, he’s bored with this. “Start going to class, and keep a civil tongue in your head with your mother. Are you doing drugs? Don’t even bother to lie to me. If you’re not—good. If you are—stop.”

  “Are we done?” Salvador asks.

  “Yes.”

  The young man gets up and starts to walk away.

  “Salvador.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Get your degree,” Adán says. “Show me you have the discipline to finish your education, stop being a pain in the ass, and then come back to me and we’ll see.”

  Salvador is going to get into the pista secreta one way or the other, Adán thinks. He might as well do it through me, where I can at least keep an eye on him.

  But not yet.

  This will kick the can down the street for a couple of years, anyway. By that time he might find a nice girl, an interest, a career, and not want what he thinks he wants now.