The man’s expression twisted. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to respect a man who’s got a gun to your head? These are those little life lessons she should’ve taught you.”
“Are you done with your alpha-male bullshit? What the fuck are you doing here?”
“How long did you think it would take? Did you think you could come down here to Mexico and hang out with a drug cartel and not gain anyone’s attention?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m an investigative journalist. I report on criminal activity. You read my fucking article. You think I’m in bed with them? You’re fucking nuts. And I’m calling the police.”
The man shifted up to him, raising the pistol even higher. His playful tone vanished. “Sit down, motherfucker.”
Johnny returned to his chair. “Jesus Christ …”
“The wheels are spinning now, huh? You’re thinking, Holy shit, what have I gotten myself into? Well, you should’ve thought about that before you started working with Corrales. Blood might be thicker than water, but as I like to say, lead will always get you dead.”
“Look, asshole, all I’m doing is writing. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not taking from anyone.”
“But you’re not helping anyone, either.”
“Bullshit I’m not. I’m taking the American public into the trenches of the drug war here. This is a behind-the-scenes tour into hell, into how screwed up this community has become.”
“That sounds pretty fucking dramatic, and I guess it is, since you’ve got a gun to your head right now. Are you going to put me in an article?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man widened his eyes. “I’m your last friend in the whole wide world. Now show me your hand.”
“What?”
“Show me your hand.”
Johnny extended one palm, and the man used his free hand to grab Johnny’s and turn it backside up.
“Here, hold this,” said the man, offering Johnny the gun.
“What the fuck?” Johnny cried.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not loaded.”
The man shoved the gun in Johnny’s free hand, then reached into an inner breast pocket and produced a large syringe that he shoved into the soft tissue between Johnny’s thumb and forefinger. The pain was sharp for a second, and Johnny screamed and demanded to know what was happening. The man released him and said, “Gun?”
“Are you for real?”
The guy made a face. “Gun?”
“What did you do? Poison me?”
“Easy, Shakespeare. It’s just an implant. GPS. So we can keep you safe.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“There are a lot of letters in the alphabet, Johnny, and I’m betting as a writer you can figure that out.”
“DEA?” Johnny asked. “Oh my God.”
“Sorry,” said the man. “I’m afraid you’ve just climbed into bed with the United States government.”
Johnny’s shoulders shrank. “This cannot be happening.”
“Look, you can’t talk. It’s already too late for that. If you go to Corrales and tell him we’re here, you’ll die. We won’t kill you, he will. Like I said, I’m your last friend. You won’t make it out of Mexico alive without me.”
Johnny’s eyes began to burn, and he was fast running out of breath. “What do you want? What am I supposed to do?”
“The Juárez Cartel is being led by Jorge Rojas.”
Johnny burst out laughing. “Is that what you dumbass Feds think? Oh my God …stupidity run amok!”
“I got that from Zúñiga.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Then you know who he is, and I’m sure Corrales can confirm that Rojas is his boss. I need you to pump Corrales for everything you can get on Rojas.”
“Do I have to wear a wire?”
“Not right now. But we’ll see.”
Johnny stiffened. “I won’t do it. I’m leaving Mexico tonight; you Feds can go fuck yourselves.”
“Yeah, and the moment you step off the plane in California we’ll place you under arrest.”
“For what?”
The man eyed the junk-food wrappers on the desk. “For failing to eat a balanced diet.”
“Dude, you’d better leave now.”
“You are the son of Corrales’s godmother. He trusts you like you were blood. And you feed his ego. That’s very important to us, and you can do the right thing here. You might be afraid now, but I need you to think how many people will be saved because of your help. I can sit you down and spend a week showing you how many families have been ruined by drugs.”
“Spare me the bleeding-heart bullshit. People choose to buy and use drugs. Corrales and the cartel are just the suppliers. You want to talk politics, then let’s talk about the Mexican economy.”
The man waved Johnny off and pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to him. The guy’s name was Scott Howard, and he was president of a solar-energy company. “So you’re Mr. Howard? Yeah, right.”
“My number’s there. You let me know the next time you’re going to make contact with Corrales.”
Howard — or whatever his name was — pocketed his “empty” weapon and moved swiftly to the door.
Johnny sat there as a shudder ripped through his shoulders. What would he do?
20 DIVERSIONS
It was seven A.M., and Dante Corrales was not in the mood to wait for a man who was supposed to be working for him, a man who answered to him, a man who knew better than to disrespect him like this. Corrales had yet to have his morning coffee, and he’d wanted to get this meeting over within five minutes, but the workers in the tunnel had told him that Romero had still not arrived and that he usually didn’t show up until eight a.m. What kind of bullshit was that? The man was being paid good money to get the job done, and he thought he could float in every morning at eight? Did he think he was a banker? Hell would be paid — with interest — and his failure to answer his cell phone was salt in the wound.
And so Corrales waited for him inside the warehouse, listening to the clunks and roars of heavy construction equipment being used next door. The vibrations worked their way up into his legs and back. Those guys got to work at dawn and finished at dusk. They didn’t stroll in at eight. They had a sense of urgency that Romero needed to learn.
“Go get me some goddamned coffee,” Corrales finally shouted at Raúl, who was loitering near the metal roll-up door with Pablo.
Raúl shook his head, muttered something under his breath, then headed outside, the sky washed pink by the rising sun. Pablo shifted up to Corrales and said, “Are you okay?”
“This fucking guy won’t be here till eight, you believe that shit? And why isn’t he answering his phone?”
“Something else is bothering you,” said Pablo. “You want to talk about it?”
“What’re you, my shrink?”
“You still upset about the two guys we lost at the V Bar? Don’t be. Those assholes screwed up the job big-time. I told you from the get-go they were cabrones.”
“I don’t give a shit about them. It’s the American I’m worried about. Can’t find him now. He could be working with the Federal Police, who knows …”
“Aw, that dumb shit probably just got scared off. He didn’t look like a Fed. Just some asshole business guy who thought he could come down here and get some Mexican slaves for his company, the fucker …”
“No, there’s something happening, and if we don’t keep our eyes wide open, this …all of this …is going to come tumbling down, and the boss will make sure you get buried right here.”
Corrales sighed and waited another five minutes for his coffee. Pablo continued to make small talk, most of which Corrales ignored. Raúl finally returned, and Corrales practically wrenched the cup from Raúl’s hand and took a long sip. His nose crinkled. This was hardly as good as the Starbucks he’d get on the other side of the border, but he’d drink it anyway, and as he reached the bottom of his cup at exactly 7:39, Pedro Romero dragged himself into the warehouse. He shoved his glasses farther up his nose and tugged at his jeans, which were dropping below his potbelly. He frowned at Corrales and the others and lifted his voice, “Buenos días.”